


When It Is Darkest We Begin To See

by Ymas



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Richard Hammond's Crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-08-10 14:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymas/pseuds/Ymas
Summary: On 20th September 2006, the world turns upside down.And not just for Richard, who isinthe jet car.A tale of friendship and commitment and how, when the times are darkest, we begin to see what matters most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I have chosen not to use archive warnings.  
I assure you that none of the four major warnings apply. Most importantly: no one is going to die. Richard will recover, as he did in real life.  
But there's quite a bit of other stuff that might be triggery to some and I'd like you to proceed with caution. If anyone wants/needs more details before reading, hit me up in the comments with a means to contact you and I'll do my best to answer any questions!
> 
> This is my very belated coping fic for Richard's jet car accident. And we all know that was a bad one.  
The story lived in my head (and in little snippets on paper) for all these years. I have finally gone and written it down. 
> 
> I couldn't be more grateful to [delighted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted) for helping me through the story and the feels. This wouldn't be what it is without you!  
(I admit I don't always listen to her, so all remaining mistakes and awkwardness: mine and mine alone.)
> 
> _Story notes:_  
I start with the original timeline and then veer wildly off. For a heartwrenching account of what really happened, please go read Richard and Mindy's "On the Edge". It's worth it. 
> 
> _Relationships:_  
No wives for James and Jeremy, Richard is (amicably) divorced. No kids.  
Story focuses mostly on Richard's accident/recovery and how everyone deals with the situation, but builds up to mild J/J. No smut. 
> 
> _Updates_  
Trying for once or twice a week, days will vary. The story is written, I edit as I go.

‘_Room 204. Don’t get caught by the nurses_.’ That’s all the two-hours-old text says. Just that.  
  
And then there’s another one, received ten minutes later: _‘Hurry.’_  
  
Cold dread pools in James’ stomach.  
  
No _‘Don’t worry’_. No _‘He’s going to be alright’_.  
Basically just _‘Hurry up and don’t get caught’_.  
  
And Jeremy knows James would worry. There is no reason for him to hold back on the reassurance other than the fact that there _is_ no reassurance.  
  
Now that he is here, James can hardly bring himself to move. Idles away time he has made up with his unorthodox driving by looking up at the hospital building, at some windows lit, most dark and forbidding.  
The hands fiddling with his mobile tremble, it’s difficult to draw breath. But there’s nothing for it.  
James climbs out of his car and heads for the entrance.  
  
It’s 2am in the morning and Jeremy has been here for hours.  
Which isn’t due to any slow driving on James’ part. After all, he’s taken the Boxster and managed the journey up from London in just over three hours. And absolute record in James’ book.  
No. It’s due to the fact that the first person Andy called was, of course, Jeremy. And then the BBC lawyers. And then Richard’s family. And then Jeremy again.  
  
By the time it was finally James’ turn, Richard had already been operated on and slipped into a coma.  
  
He doesn’t blame Jeremy for forgetting him. He really doesn’t. The man must have been in a right state, being called out of dinner, immediately driving up to Leeds while trying to prevent rash press release, probably managing a hundred different things all at once and worrying about their Hamster on top of that.  
  
Really, he doesn’t.  
  
But it hurts.  
  
James jogs over to the night porter’s cabin and is directed to night reception.  
Heeding Jeremy’s advice he avoids it, ducking into the nearest corridor instead when no one’s looking.  
  
Although his abysmal sense of direction isn’t always an act, he is actually quite capable of finding his way around if he puts his mind to it. Which is why he gets into the correct corridor on first try and stands in front of 204 before he’s even remotely ready.  
  
There is no saying how long he would have stood there if not for the footsteps approaching from around the corner.  
As it is, he takes a deep breath, slips inside, softly clicks the door shut behind himself and turns around.  
  
It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.  
This must be what has happened, it must be the case, because for a moment, he simply _cannot _breathe.  
  
This is not their Richard, lying in that bed.  
This is not the annoyingly bright and exuberant little twat who never fails to bring a smile to their faces, no matter how irritating he might be.  
  
This Richard here lies white and still amidst a multitude of machines which are quantifying his very being in bleeps and hieroglyphs.  
  
A ventilator is breathing for him, there are drips in both his arms and his whole face is purple-yellowish with bruising. He has a frighteningly big lump on his forehead and his left eye is completely swollen shut.  
  
And then there’s Jeremy. Sitting in a plastic chair, slumped over the bed in a way that is certain to break his back to death.  
He’s gripping Richard’s hand tightly in one of his own, looking for all the world as if he’s never going to let go again.  
  
James forces air into his constricted lungs. Once. Twice. Until breathing becomes marginally easier.  
  
First for the living.  
  
He winces at his own thought, but while there’s absolutely nothing he can do for Richard at the moment, what he _can_ do, is ensure that Jeremy doesn’t do his bad back any more damage.  
  
He cautiously approaches and places his hand on the back of Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy jumps violently and tries to flinch away, but James keeps him down with a gentle pressure. “It’s just me, Clarkson. No sudden movements, alright?”  
  
At the sound of James’ voice, Jeremy abandons the motion, slumps back down onto the bed instead as if he were a puppet with its strings cut, limp and slack with his forehead pressed to Richard’s hand, breathing raggedly. It takes several minutes until he finally sits up, gingerly straightening his back.  
  
He doesn’t look at James.  
He only looks at Richard.  
  
“James is here”, he rasps hoarsely, “See, Richard? I told you. He’s here, he’s finally here.”  
He pats at a few strands of hair in an area of Richard’s head that hasn’t been shorn and doesn’t look too damaged. “Bloody hell, May, whatever took you so long?”  
  
All the worry, the lack of sleep, all the anxiety, all the fear and frustration, crashes over James in one sudden, jarring wave. “Fuck you, Clarkson! Maybe if you had bothered to call me, I’d have been here before you!”  
  
And this, finally, makes Jeremy turn around to him. And James immediately regrets his harsh words, wishes he could take them back.  
Jeremy looks… he looks terrible. His face is grey and pinched, there are purplish-blue bags under his eyes and honest-to-god moisture in them.  
He looks shell-shocked. Distraught. Pleading.  
Up at James.  
  
“I know.” His voice breaks. If from disuse, overuse or emotions, James can’t quite tell. “I know, James. I’m so sorry. It’s just… I forgot. This is the worst night… of my entire life. I don’t know…”  
  
As fast as it has come over James the anger is gone again, leaving nothing but anguish and misery. He carefully sits on the edge of Richard’s bed, facing Jeremy.  
The need to reach out and touch Jeremy again, for no apparent reason this time, is almost overwhelming, but years of self-conditioning are holding him back.  
  
“No. I am sorry, Jezza. That was uncalled for.”  
  
Jeremy looks lost and confused, shockingly small and insubstantial for a man his size. He still has a tight grip on Richard’s hand.  
  
James runs a single index finger lightly down Richard’s arm, mindful of all the drips and tubes.  
  
He can’t quite think of anything to say that might help, overwhelmed as he is, himself. The silence stretches. He can feel Jeremy shaking next to him, repeatedly squeezing Richard’s hand harder before catching himself and easing up again.  
  
“Why don’t you go have a fag?” James suggests finally. “I’ve got this.”  
  
Jeremy’s eyes are huge in his pale face when he looks up at James, dazed and uncomprehending. The words take a very long time to process.  
  
“I need a slash”, he finally says, in a kind of detached wonder. As if he’s only just realised. As if he needs James to tell him how to go about that.  
  
“Yeah. And a fag, too, I reckon.” James hunts through his jeans for his almost full packet of cigarettes, slipping it into Jeremy’s breast pocket. “Go. I’ll be here.”  
  
Jeremy stares at his hand holding Richard’s. As if he doesn’t quite know how to let go.  
As if he doesn’t _dare _to let go.  
  
James reaches over and covers both their hands with his own. “It’s ok, mate”, he soothes again, carefully prying Jeremy’s icy fingers loose and replacing the big hand with his own. Richard’s fingers lie still and lifeless in his. “I’ve got him. I won’t let go. I promise.”  
  
Jeremy nods, running the tip of his thumb along Richard’s jaw before hesitantly getting up  
He winces and stumbles over his own feet twice before he even reaches the door.  
  
“Hey Jez”, James cautions, because Jeremy certainly is in no state to think straight right now. “Remember to avoid the nurses, yeah?”  
  
Jeremy rests his forehead against the closed door and shakes his head. Sighs.  
There’s a chocked sound that could be a laugh, or a sob, but isn’t either.  
  
“Don’t have to. I’m allowed.”  
  
And even though he’s mostly turned away, James can see him grin.  
It’s grotesque, a hideous grimace of agony and dread.  
  
“Turns out he named me next of kin. Fancy that, James. I’m the one who gets to make all the essential decisions.” He huffs again, a strangled, choked off sound. “Me, James.”  
  
James is still utterly speechless by the time Jeremy more falls than walks out of the room.  
The door snaps shut behind him.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Oh bloody hell, Richard”, James whispers when he has finally recovered enough to breathe despite the vice around his chest, speak despite the lump in his throat. “Whatever have you done?”  
  
He slides off the edge of the bed and into the room’s single chair, not letting go of Richard’s hand in the process.  
He’s promised.  
  
And besides, loath as he is to admit it, he needs the contact for himself.  
  
He looks at Richard, remembers his excitement when the idea, _Richard’s_ idea, of driving a jet car had first been approved by Andy and Jeremy. His glee when he had been selected for the segment. Followed by utter disappointment at being replaced by James for ‘comedic reasons’.  
  
But Richard simply has no concept of some people not being as thrilled by speed and risk as he is. And he is nothing but generous. So he had promptly recovered and showered James with his enthusiasm, being absolutely delighted for him.  
James himself couldn’t have cared less one way or the other, so at the very next opportunity he’d grabbed Jeremy by the sleeve, dragged him into an empty office and told him, in no uncertain terms, that Richard would be doing the jet car-driving or James would boycott the next News segment with a flood of technical details about motorcycles. Or carburettors.  
  
It had taken surprisingly little to convince Jeremy.  
He’d probably felt sorry himself for taking the feature from Richard and when, at the following production meeting, he’d announced that they were back to the original plan because James “wouldn’t be able to handle the speed and get lost driving in a straight line”, it had taken a relentlessly stern look from James to keep Richard from outright hugging him.  
  
And now look where it has got him. When he shouldn’t even have been the one driving.  
  
It’s too much.  
  
James closes his eyes and lifts their joined hands, resting his forehead against them.  
  
Oh, how he wishes he had never given up the segment.  
How he wishes he could at least go back to that moment and just let Richard go ahead with the hugging. It wouldn’t have hurt him, after all. It might even have been nice. To give in. Just the once.  
  
He might never have another chance, now.  
  
Ever again.


	2. Chapter 2

  
When he comes back, Jeremy looks marginally better. His skin has turned from deathly grey to a slightly less alarming shade of pale and his eyes have thankfully lost their disconcerting haze.  
  
With an apologetic half-smile in James’ direction he throws the empty cigarette pack into the bin, gets his own from his jacket by the door and offers this and the lighter back to James. James takes the two items and awkwardly fumbles four cigarettes from Jeremy’s pack with one hand. He slides these and the lighter into the pocket of his jeans before giving the rest of the pack back to him.  
  
Jeremy takes it without making a fuss.  
  
He also doesn’t make James get out of the only chair in the room.  
And although James wants to, wants to be strong, and rational, it’s beyond him to offer.  
  
After a moment of indecision, Jeremy moves to the other side of the bed and very, very carefully lowers himself onto it next to Richard, settling against the headboard. Some more obvious hesitation and then he rests his hand against Richard’s shoulder, running his thumb lightly against a collarbone. On that side, there are just too many tubes coming out of Richard’s hand to grab it.  
Jeremy’s breathing is uneven, hitchy, and James turns his gaze away, giving them both a thin veneer of privacy.  
  
They sit in silence for a long, long time, until finally James can’t take it anymore.  
  
He’s been wondering, ever since walking in.  
Maybe already on the drive down, albeit on a subconscious level. But the thought has been pressing through his brain, to the forefront of his mind until it made it to the tip of his tongue and it’s impossible now to rein it back in, to stomp it back down.  
  
“Would it be easier if it were me?”  
  
He stumbles over the words.  
Sure of the answer.  
Scared of the answer.  
Sure of how he would answer the question himself.  
  
Jeremy’s eyes snap up to his, startled and confused. “What the fuck, James?”  
  
“If it were me. Instead of him. Like it was meant to be. Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone? For you?”  
  
Jeremy’s mouth opens. Closes again without a sound coming out.  
He looks disturbingly like a goldfish out of water.  
  
James nods, shrugs.  
He understands.  
  
Jeremy runs a shaking hand over his face. Struggling. With words. With emotions, clearly. Yes. James understands.  
And then: “Fuck me, James. No, fuck _you_. How can you…? What have I ever _done_ to make you think…?”  
  
And James suddenly _truly_ understands. Suddenly sees it.  
And it’s a revelation.  
  
It’s the three of them, or nothing.  
  
Jeremy couldn’t choose between him and Richard any more than James could choose between Richard and Jeremy. He’s always known this to be true for himself, been fairly certain it applies to Richard, but hasn’t been so sure about Jeremy.  
  
Jeremy can be cruel when he takes the piss.  
It had been pretty bad for a while around series 4, when James had been almost convinced that Jeremy hated him.  
After that it had gotten better, but Jeremy’s been working with Richard longer, connects to Richard on a whole different level, the two of them always ganging up for shenanigans and setting things on fire.  
And Richard allows touch, whereas James shrinks away from it.  
  
And sometimes it all feels a little unbalanced.  
  
But it’s only his imagination.  
His insecurity.  
In reality, it has never been unbalanced.  
In reality, it’s the three of them, or nothing.  
  
He feels such relief, so much affection, he could cry.  
  
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare even _think_ that. Ever”, Jeremy rasps, drawing a hand over his face again, rakes it into his hair, shakes his head, distraught and upset. “Christ, James. Don’t you _ever_. You _can’t_.”  
  
James nods. Looks down at Richard, then up into Jeremy’s consternated eyes. Almost smiles over threatening tears.  
  
“Okay.”  


* * *

  
  
  
They are startled out of their respective thoughts by a night nurse bustling in the door.  
She stops short at the sight of them both and opens her mouth, but Jeremy fixes her with his fiercest Jeremy-glare until she closes it again without saying anything.  
  
Even in his dishevelled and distraught state, Jeremy is an imposing figure.  
  
James watches the silent exchange in awe, then scrambles out of the way when he realises the nurse needs access to Richard.  
  
He doesn’t let go of Richard’s hand, though.  
  
The nurse goes through a series of checks, tries to wake Richard up by calling his name and stimulating him with light and pain, notes more hieroglyphs on his patient card and disappears as quickly as she’d arrived.  
  
James and Jeremy stare at each other, at Richard, at each other again.  
  
They spend the rest of the night alternately calling his name, talking to him and trying to coax him into waking up.  
  
Unsuccessfully, of course.  


* * *

  
  
  
The doctor’s visit early in the morning doesn’t go that smoothly.  
He persists that James has no business being here and that he’s making a big enough exception to the rules already with letting Jeremy stay 24/7.  
  
James sees that he has a point, so he starts gathering his stuff to leave until visiting hours officially start, but Jeremy is having none of it.  
He goes into such a fit, James is almost certain the outburst will be what wakes Richard up. In between trying to calm things down he keeps glancing over at the bed, but to no avail.  
  
Then Andy storms in, no doubt having heard Jeremy’s rampage from wherever he was, and he puts an end to it, silencing him with couple of choice words of his own and finally a hug before trying to send both James and Jeremy out of the room so he can talk ‘reason’ with the doctor, who is now stuck on the fact that there are _two _unauthorized people in the room.  
  
Jeremy outright refuses to go anywhere out of sight of Richard, the volume rises again and it gets all a bit hectic, so James escapes into the corridor to find tea.  
  
He gets lost twice, not entirely unintentionally, and by the time he comes back with tea for himself and Andy and a coffee for Jeremy, things have calmed down a bit.  
  
Apparently, James is allowed to stay. But Andy isn’t and he’s just leaving, grabbing his cup of tea from James on the way out.  
  
He stops again in the doorway and turns around, giving them a pointed look. “The press is camped out in front of the entrance, by the way. We need to discuss how to deal with them.”  
  
“Fuck the press”, Jeremy spits and Andy shrugs.  
  
“Yeah, but that won’t actually make them go away, will it? Just find me when you’re ready, chaps, alright?”  


* * *

  
  
  
And then they are finally alone again, and it’s not even 7am yet.  
  
Jeremy is pacing back and forth agitatedly and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stop with it anytime soon. So, after a moment’s hesitation, James thrusts the cup of coffee at him on his next pass, then retakes possession of the plastic chair and Richard’s hand.  
  
He tries to blank out Jeremy, concentrates on Richard, talking to him, apologising for the ruckus and vainly trying to get a reaction, any reaction at all, to squeezing his hand.  
  
He manages for all of ten minutes before he snaps.  
  
“Stop it, Clarkson, you’re giving me a headache!”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t even slow down.  
  
“Jeremy!”  
  
“What am I going to tell them? What the hell am I supposed to say?” He frantically rakes a hand through his hair.  
  
“Tell whom?” James asks, confused.  
  
Now that stops Jeremy short. “What do you mean, whom? Everyone, of course! Mindy, his parents, the crew, the press, everyone! Bugger it all, but the tabloids are going to have a field day. They are going to tear us apart. They’ve just been waiting for this!” He snorts humourlessly, air quoting: “’Jeremy Clarkson has finally managed to kill one of his co-presenters’”. At that he deflates like a balloon that has been pricked, looking guiltily over at Richard. “Heaven forbid.”  
  
“And who says it’s you who has to face them?” James asks. “There’s Andy. And anyway, the Beeb is paying a fortune to people to do just that.”  
  
Jeremy looks like he doesn’t quite understand the question. “Of course it’s me. This whole fucking shit-show is me! It was all my idea. I brought the two of you in. I’m responsible for whatever happens in it. I’m responsible for whatever happens to _you_.”  
  
“Well, I quite like _myself_ to be responsible for me, thank you very much”, James snaps irritably, knowing the irritation stems mostly from worry and lack of sleep, the realisation making him even more irritable. “Richard and I, we are entirely capable of looking after ourselves. We don’t actually need you to stand up for us!”  
  
As soon as he’s said it, he realises how ridiculous this sounds in the situation they are in.  
  
“Never mind”, he sighs.  
  
And then, out of nowhere it hits him that this is probably exactly what Jeremy has been doing all these years. Always putting himself to the front, always taking the brunt of media hassle, taking the blame even for things he’s had no part in, letting James and Richard slip quietly under the radar.  
  
He’d even been conveniently caught (innocently) kissing a married BBC host right about the time when Mindy had left Richard. The tabloids had been occupied with that story for a couple of weeks, allowing their divorce and her subsequent move to New Zealand to pass by almost unnoticed.  
  
Even back then, James had been mildly suspicious at the timing, but hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it. It was far too convenient to stay out of the spotlight and let greater-than-life Jeremy Clarkson deal with all the unpleasant side effects of being a celebrity. After all, Jeremy Clarkson can’t ever be bothered, doesn’t give a shit about people’s opinions and can take just about anything.  
  
Watching him now, though, gently sitting down on the edge of Richard’s bed, toying with a strand of hair that hasn’t been shaved off, this Jeremy doesn’t look like he could take much of anything at all.  
  
This Jeremy is racked with emotions and James wonders if they’ve had him wrong all along.  
  
“I just can’t bear to see either of you hurt”, Jeremy mutters, bent over Richard.  
  
Probably not even aware he’s saying it out loud.  
  
James doesn’t let on that he’s heard.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

An hour or so later James jerks awake to the dreadful sensation of having had the most horrible nightmare. One of the sort that’s so bad he doesn’t even want to _try_ to remember what it was about.  
  
Gradually, the steady bleeping of a heart monitor sinks in, as well as the fact that he’s slumped uncomfortably in a plastic chair, Richard’s hand folded firmly in his own.  
  
The nightmare is reality.  
  
James succumbs to a bit of an unmanly moment then and there.  
  
Tightly squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the moisture in them to disappear. The voice of his father is loud in his head: ‘_Why are you crying, boy? You don’t actually think crying will make a difference, do you?_’  
James shakes his head. His father is right. Tears couldn’t bring back his mother, tears won’t make Richard Hammond better.  
  
The embarrassing moment thankfully passes fairly quickly and James manages to properly open his eyes and look around.  
  
Jeremy is perched awkwardly on the very edge of Richard’s bed, fast asleep with his face pressed into Richard’s upper arm. The sight is heartbreaking.  
  
Before the emotions can get the better of him again, James gets up. He groans at the twinges in his back, stretches, then pads into the adjoining bathroom to take a leak. He splashes water onto his ghostly pale face and rinses his mouth, but gives up on taming his tangled hair almost at once. It’s no use.   
  
After a deep, bracing breath he steps out into Richard’s room again.  
Makes himself stop in the doorway, makes himself take it all in, makes himself _believe_.  
  
Richard is lying white and still and unresponsive as before.   
He doesn’t look ‘peaceful’ or ‘asleep’ or any of the cheesy descriptions you read about people in a coma in a cheap Reader’s Digest magazine at the dentist’s.  
  
He looks like a marble statue with a damaged head.  
White and cold and still.  
Neither dead nor alive.  
Caught in an in-between world of his own.  
James shivers.  
  
Jeremy is lying next to Richard with as much distance as a man of his size could manage on the narrow bed. Probably afraid of disturbing the multitude of tubes and cannulas attached to him. His head, though, bent at an obviously uncomfortable angle, is pressed as close as it can possibly go. James wonders how Jeremy can still breathe with his nose buried in Richard’s upper arm like that. The fingers of one hand are clenched into Richard’s arm and James worries briefly that it’s hurting him. He moves to wake Jeremy up to make him loosen his grip, but then, standing right next to him, he can’t fail to notice the deep furrows on Jeremy’s forehead, the bags under his eyes, the convulsive tightening and loosening of his fingers, even in sleep.   
He sighs and decides a couple of additional bruises probably won’t matter.  
  
James has never seen either of his friends so vulnerable, and certainly not Jeremy. He longs to touch, to smooth his hair and the lines on his face. But he holds back once again.   
Tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to wake Jeremy up.  
  
It’s 9am and, looking at his two best friends, frail and hurting, James comes to a decision.  
It’s time to take responsibility.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The nurse on duty points him towards a storage room in the basement and James doesn’t even dare to play for time by getting lost on the way, lest he might lose his nerve.  
  
He knows Andy is there, expects Iain, Richard and maybe Ben.   
What he doesn’t expect is most of the Top Gear crew, camped out on makeshift benches, sitting on the floor, asleep under tables.  
He should have, though. They are family, after all.  
  
A hush descends over the room, expectation like static in the air, people shaking their sleeping colleagues awake, every face in the room turning towards him.  
  
And James almost turns on his heel, almost flees, afraid that any second now they are going to jump him, demand answers he can’t give, pressure him for details he doesn’t want to share.  
  
He has never given them enough credit, apparently.   
No one says a word and at a minute shake of his head, everyone goes back to what they’d been doing before.   
Sleeping, reading, tapping away at their phones.   
  
Except for one person, of course.  
  
“Where’s Jeremy?” Andy asks, coming over from somewhere near the back.  
  
“Asleep. Finally.”  
  
“Well, we’ve got to wake him up. The press won’t be satisfied with a statement from me and the hospital people are losing their patience, and rightly so I should say, and…”  
  
“I’ll do it”, James interrupts him.  
  
Every eye in the room is back on him.   
On private, awkward James May, who, by some tremendous coincidence, has somehow been dumped straight into the biggest motoring show in the world.   
Who still, despite his profession and his publicity, has never learned to play the crowds like his colleagues do, who prefers to stay invisible in between shows and who, if that proves impossible, deflates any serious question with a quick joke, usually at his own expense.  
Who still isn’t sure if this is his place in life.   
Who still isn’t sure if these people think he is in the right place.   
  
He’s been for a beer at the pub with each and every person in this room, played darts with them, pool, and still, or because of it, he is the odd one out, the bloke from ‘round the corner, not a celebrity presenting a motoring show and certainly not someone you’d trust with a delicate press conference.  
  
Andy blinks rapidly a few times. “Well that’s… why?”  
  
James shrugs. “Because Jeremy is in no state to…”  
  
Before he can finish, Andy has grabbed his elbow and towed him out into the corridor.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, James, but I think even in a bit of a distraught state, Jeremy is better suited to…”  
  
“No.” No one is going to be able to finish their sentences today, apparently. “Jeremy has hit rock bottom, Andy. They are going to blame _him _and he’s feeling guilty enough as it is and they will tear him apart and that will make it all so much worse and I won’t have that.”   
Oh. Allowed to finish his sentence after all.  
  
Andy stares at him.  
  
“You know I’m right, Andy. He is their main target. They’ve wanted to see him fail for years. And he’s done so much for us. Now I have to do this for him. I _want _to do this for him.” James takes a deep breath, looks at Andy with as much conviction as he can muster. “Please, let me do this for him.”  
  
Andy nods. It’s wary, but resigned. “Guess I can’t stop you.”  
He rummages in his jeans and produces a crumpled sheet of paper. “I’ve written a few things down. If you want to use it.”  
  
James scans the words, then hands the paper back with an apologetic shrug. “You’ve written this for Jeremy. It doesn’t work for me. I’ll just wing it, I guess.”  
  
That makes Andy look even more worried. But everyone knows James winging it is nowhere near as dangerous as Jeremy doing the same and they trust each other, so, after a short, silent staring competition, Andy shrugs. “Want to get it over with, then?”  
  
“Please”, James says, as nonchalantly as he can manage.  
  
Inside, though, he’s panicking. What is he going to say? How is he going to say it? It has to be suitably emotional. He can‘t lose it and start bawling on daytime television but he’s also not allowed to turn off all emotional attachments (like he knows he could, like he’s been trained to do all his life) because he would come across as cold and uncaring and that would kick up more shit than even Andy could handle.  
  
They walk together towards the main entrance and James has to constantly stop himself from blanking out, from detaching himself from the situation and also, especially, from running away.  
  
Long before he’s ready, they reach their destination.  
  
“Do you want me to come out with you?” Andy asks and his voice is gentle, like he knows exactly what this costs James and wants to play by his rules.  
  
James nods. “Please. If you could. In the background. That would be good, yeah.”  
  
Andy aborts what James knows would have been a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but he has no time to dwell on the realisation of how the people around him consciously seem to check their own behaviour for his benefit.  
  
He runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, takes a deep breath and steps out onto the broad stone steps that lead down to the parking lot where reporters from every major and many of the minor TV and radio stations in the country (and quite a few from abroad) are waiting for just this moment.  
  
“Hello."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In a frenzy of movement everyone tries to get into the best position.   
  
Cameras previously pointed at a presenter whirl around in James’ direction and he realises, with a resignation born out of always being the unlucky one, always drawing the short straw, that he’s managed to walk right into the ten o’clock news.  
Several of these stations are now getting live footage of a tired, dirty, rumpled and thoroughly unprepared James May struggling to put a nightmare into words.  
  
In the end, though, he’s rather impressed with himself.  
  
He’s calm but not distant. Collected, but not entirely unemotional. He starts with a quick run-down of the events. Yes, it was a jet-car, no, he has no idea how fast Richard was going, no, he doesn’t know what happened exactly but yes, he’s sure it was an accident, there is no one to blame. No, he doesn’t know if TopGear is finished, that’s up to Richard when _(when!) _he’s ready to come back and no, Jeremy Clarkson is definitely not ‘finally finished’ you insensitive prick and you can scratch every interview or comment your paper might have ever scored with any one of us.  
He even remembers to thank the first responders. He mentions that he and Jeremy, as well as most of the crew, arrived during the night in a show of support, but that no doctor has given them any news yet. He makes a slight joke about Richard being tough and too much of a nuisance to go quietly, before growing very serious again and asking the media to respect their privacy and treat them as they themselves would want to be treated if someone in their family was lying in a coma fighting death.  
This is followed by a genuine, heartfelt plea to give them the space they need in this difficult situation.  
Someone asks where Jeremy is and James can hardly wrap his head around the stupidity of the question. “Well, where he belongs, of course. With Richard. Which is where I need to be right now, too. So. Yes. Goodbye.”  
  
There are tears in Andy’s eyes when they return inside. “That was great, mate”, he says, wiping them away. “You were fantastic. I have no idea why we’ve always put the orangutan forward, you’re handling them way better.”  
  
James slumps against the nearest wall, all remaining composure abruptly deserting his body, leaving nothing but bone deep exhaustion.  
  
“’Cause it'd kill me doing this on a regular basis, Andy. It would kill me. Bloody Norah.”  
  



	4. Chapter 4

By the time James gets back, Richard is gone and Jeremy is sitting in the sole plastic chair, spooning down yoghurt and watching a replay of James on the news.  
  
Damn but the world is a fast place these days.  
  
“They’ve taken him to do a CT”, Jeremy says before James can even process the situation enough to start panicking.  
  
James nods, contemplating himself on the screen. Yes, he looks about as bad as he feels, what with his crumpled clothing, his hair sticking out every which way and dark purple bags under haunted eyes in a lined, tired face.  
Well, who cares? It’s not as if he hasn’t made a fool of himself on national television before and that had been without the benefit of being able to claim extraordinary circumstances. He shrugs and turns away. Looking good on TV has never been less important.  
  
“Should’ve woken me up, you know”, Jeremy says quietly, waving the spoon at the screen without taking his eyes off it.  
  
He takes another mouthful before passing the nearly empty yoghurt container over, still avoiding eye contact.  
  
It makes James realise how hungry he is and he wolfs down the meagre rest in a couple of swift bites, waiting for Jeremy’s next move.  
The atmosphere is charged, it’s obvious something’s going to pop, he just can’t yet imagine what it will be. How it will go.  
  
“It was quite alright, actually”, Jeremy finally says. “Vultures lapped it up, at least.”  
  
James can’t quite decide if he sounds sarcastic or not, so he just shrugs and vainly looks for a bin to dispose of the plastic spoon and pot.  
  
“You shouldn’t have done it, though. ‘S my job.”  
  
“So you think you would have done better?” James carefully asks, unfolding a paper napkin on the bedside table and setting the spoon and empty pot neatly on it.  
  
“I don’t know. But it’s my job. I don’t need _you_ to do my dirty work for me, I’m perfectly capable to do it myself.”  
  
“Well face it, Clarkson, not everything is your responsibility”, James interrupts. “In case you still haven’t noticed, the world doesn’t revolve solely around you.” He feels anger bubbling up, born of frustration. A ‘thank you’ would have been kind of nice, after all. “Besides, Andy liked it better than most of your performances. I have, apparently, managed to offend exactly no one.”  
  
“Of course, what’s not to like?” Jeremy scoffs, gesturing at the screen, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Poster-boy May, picture perfect, everybody’s favourite. Isn’t he always.”  
  
James freezes. Granted, what he’s said has only been half meant as a joke, would have been a weak joke under any circumstances, and really hasn’t come out in a good way.  
But he is exhausted and he’s just stepped very far out of his comfort zone to do Jeremy a favour and there is no reason for Jeremy to fling cryptic, disguised abuse at him.  
  
Even if they’re both tired.  
Even if James is maybe only imagining it.  
He. Just. Can’t. Deal.  
  
“I really don't get what your problem is, Clarkson”, he snaps, turns on his heel and slams the door.  
  
Like Richard would have done.  
Like Richard has done so many times.  
Like Richard might never do again.  
  
The thought slices white-hot through James’ chest.  
  
He heads back down to the storage room where the crew is still gathered, many of them watching replays of scruffy James on the 10 o'clock news.  
  
He ignores their questioning glances, grabs one of the woollen blankets lying in a heap on a table and aims for the furthest, darkest corner of the room. Porter, good mate that he is, scrambles out of the way and James wordlessly lies down on the bench, pulling the blanket up over his head, effectively shutting out the world.  
  
He needs a fucking break.  


* * *

  
  
  
When he wakes up, the world isn't a better place, but he feels marginally better prepared to deal with it.  
  
Someone hands him a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich and he makes an effort to chew, swallow, and chat for a little while.  
  
At the first opportunity, though, he escapes back up to Richard’s room.  
  
Richard is back, his elderly parents have come to visit and gone again and a nurse has brought a camp bed in, on which Jeremy is fast asleep.  
  
James sits down in his usual chair in his usual position with Richard’s hand folded firmly in his own, and fervently hopes a bit of sleep will help restore Jeremy to his old self.  
  
James is prepared to deal with his share of this shitshow.  
  
But what he needs is someone to stand by him, reassure him.   
Not someone throwing him even more off track at every opportunity.


	5. Chapter 5

Richard has a bad night.  
  
There is haemorrhaging in his brain which makes him size repeatedly, every muscle in his otherwise lithe body stiffening up, teeth grinding together brutally.   
He’s moaning, a horrible, frightful, grating sound, jerking and shuddering through the aftermath. Calms down only briefly before it starts all over again.  
  
Doctors and nurses flit in and out of the room, brandishing syringes, tubes, oxygen masks. The monitors are in a frenzy, beeping, whirring, and kicking out every which way.  
  
Jeremy has gone from naught to sixty faster than his beloved Bugatti Veyron, one second asleep on the cot in the corner, the next kneeling half on, half off Richard’s bed, scrambling for purchase, trying to hold him, calm him down, keep him still through the convulsions. He whispers, shouts, whispers, more nonsense than words, petting his hair and stroking his arms, desperate tears dripping down his cheeks and onto Richard’s discoloured face.  
  
All James can do is clutch Richard’s hand, trying to ease out fingers cramped into claws, sitting there, absolutely helpless.   
Absolutely terrified.  
  
In the early morning hours, Richard is whisked away to have holes drilled into his skull in the hope of taking away some of the pressure from his brain.  
  
James and Jeremy are left standing in the middle of the suddenly very empty, very silent room, staring at each other, wide-eyed and ashen-faced and more scared than they have ever been in their entire lives.  
  
Jeremy’s breathing is ragged and laboured, as if he can’t get enough air into his lungs, as if he’s only moments away from keeling over.   
  
James doesn’t think he’s much better off, but at least he’s reasonably certain he’ll manage to stay on his feet. And so he reaches out on an impulse, reaches for Jeremy’s elbow to keep him upright and Jeremy comes to him like a puppet on a string, collapsing face-first into James’ shoulder, clutching at his upper arm like a drowning man.  
  
He’s still mindful though, James realises with a pang, not to crowd James too much.   
He doesn’t bring his other arm up, doesn’t draw James in.   
James notices and he concentrates on it, anything to keep his mind off of what’s really going on.   
And it’s good.   
And it hurts.   
  
It hurts in a bad way to know Jeremy is still holding back around him even now, even through this horrible, horrible nightmare.   
It hurts in a good way to realise how considerate Jeremy is towards him, to realise he won’t overstep any of the boundaries James has worked so hard to set up, not even now. To know he’ll gladly take what’s offered but won’t push.   
  
It’s a surprise.   
But then again, it so very much isn’t.  
  
And James is grateful, he needs the distance. Because he wants it, the closeness. This intimate bond of deep, true friendship. The ease, the trust and comfort that comes with it. He’s always wanted it. He just never could quite bring himself to acknowledge it, to work against decades of conditioning. And when faced with the prospect, it was always, always easier to follow old, known, ingrained patterns.   
But want he does, he wants to forget the words of his father, he wants to give in, let go, prove him wrong, draw comfort, find out for himself if physical contact really doesn’t make a difference, if there really isn’t a middle way between being overemotional and detached.   
If it really is so utterly impossible to be emotional and in control at the same time.  
  
When losing control is his greatest fear.   
  
But not now. Now is not the time. Now is about Richard and worry and love and he doesn’t have the energy to deal with his past. Or to find out that his father was right, after all.  
  
It’s an awkward half-embrace, but it’s good, it’s _right_.   
  
James revels in it for a bit, but all too soon he feels the familiar edges of panic creep up (‘_What are you, sissy-boy, a nancy? Real men don’t hug. Christ, your mother let you get away with this behaviour for far too long, next you’ll be sobbing into your tutu. Show some control for once, will you!_’) and he has to detach himself, emotionally and physically, lest it becomes too much. He might lose it, might end up clinging to Clarkson and have a complete meltdown and then where would they be?   
Proving his father right, that’s what they would be doing.  
  
One by one he shuts down his emotions, trampling on them until they are unrecognisable. Until he feels familiarly light-headed and everything seems slightly surreal. He pats Jeremy’s back a few times, then carefully steps away.  
  
Sighing, Jeremy lets go and runs a tired hand over his face. Turns away. “I just don’t get what the fuck your problem is, May. It can’t be that difficult to show a little compassion. But… well, thanks, I guess. More than I could have expected, probably.”  
  
Jeremy’s voice is wavering slightly, but he seems to be over the worst of it, breath still a little shuddery, but much calmer now.   
  
James chooses to ignore the words, doesn’t let their sting register, gives him a tentative smile instead. “Tea?”  
  
Jeremy shakes his head and goes for the coat rack. “Fag, more like. Coming?”  
  
And so, minutes later, they find themselves standing close together in a deserted backyard, chain-smoking Jeremy’s cigarettes and utterly failing to imagine a world without their Hamster in it.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They smoke in silent companionship until the whole pack is finished. But even after they’ve run out, neither feels inclined to go back inside.   
  
James crouches down to pick up the cigarette butts Jeremy has dropped carelessly onto the pavement and adds them to his own pile, gathered on a small ledge in the wall.  
  
It’s dark and quiet and, despite the obvious tension, the all-encompassing atmosphere of fear in the air, they have both considerably calmed down. James is loath to break the mood, afraid to relax even slightly. He might jinx it.   
He concentrates on his cigarette butts instead, sorting them into different piles according to length, before shoving them all together again.  
  
And repeat.  
And repeat again.  
  
In the end it’s Jeremy who cracks, who breaks the spell, suddenly turning towards James.   
He waits until James is satisfied with his newest arrangement and meets his eyes, then takes a deep breath. “James, I am sorry”, he declares. Slowly. Clearly.  
  
And this is so unprecedented, so un-Jeremy-like, it has James completely lost for words.   
He blinks once, twice, struggling to fit the image of this man over the one of his best friend.  
  
Jeremy deflates a little, shifting from foot to foot, obviously having expected a reply. He recovers quickly, though.  
  
“Yes, May, don’t look at me like that. I’m sorry. I honestly am. There’s much I shouldn’t have said to you and I shouldn’t have pushed and you’re alright the way you are. Bloody hell, I like you the way you are and I didn’t mean to say any of it and I’m an arse. I know I am.” He stumbles to a halt, looking genuinely rueful.  
  
James has to look away, decides on the toes of his sneakers for lack of anywhere else and fortunately spots a previously missed cigarette butt. It gives him an opportunity to bend down, pick it up and order it into one of his piles, gives him time to swallow the lump in his throat.   
  
He is so far out of his comfort zone, he barely recognises himself.  
  
“Don’t”, he finally croaks, straightening up.  
  
“Don’t what?” Jeremy frowns, confused.  
  
“Any of it. Be you. Push. Be an arse, for god’s sake. Anything. Anything you usually do. I need you to. But please don’t snipe at me as if you mean it. And then apologise. And then be extra-nice to me suddenly. And then not. Just… don’t. Any of it. It freaks me out. And that’s the last thing I need right now.”  
  
Jeremy looks wretched and James aches for him, hates to have been the one to have put that look there, but he can’t back up. Not now. “What I need is _you_, Jez. Not some stranger I don’t even recognise. I can’t do this alone.”  
  
He breathes deeply. “I need you, Jez.”  
  
And it’s probably the first time since his mother died that he’s admitted to needing someone else, to not being self-sufficient.  
It’s monumental.  
His father would be appalled.  
  
Jeremy desperately shakes his head. “I don’t know how”, he admits, sounding choked and wet and utterly lost. “I don’t know how, I just don’t know. I don’t know how to get through this. I don’t want to and I don’t know if I even _can_. If he… if he doesn’t… I couldn’t…and they’ll make me decide, _me_, and it’s all my fault, and how could I… I’m not strong like you are and I _can’t_… and I just don’t _want_…”  
  
And James has had enough. This time, he doesn’t hesitate:   
This time, he takes a step closer, gathers Jeremy in, shushing him, holding him as tight and as close as he can.  
  
And it’s alright.  
  
The world doesn’t implode, he isn’t suddenly sporting a massive hard-on because of the intimate contact and he doesn’t lose any of his own control. He is completely focused on Jeremy, on the bundle of pain and misery in his arms, and he knows that even if they cope differently and maybe badly, they care the same, about each other and about Richard, and there is no one else in the world who could understand what they are going through and it is up to them to hold each other together.   
  
“We’ll make it”, he whispers. “We’ll make it. He won’t leave us.”  
  
He holds on through Jeremy’s breathing growing ever more heaving and erratic and keeps holding on until it evens out again, until the shoulders under his hands stop shaking and the ragged sounds subside.  
  
And only when Jeremy has entirely recovered, has stopped trembling and is breathing deeply into James’ shoulder, only then does James carefully disentangle himself.  
  
They awkwardly shuffle their feet.   
Jeremy clears his throat a few times but doesn’t say anything.  
  
Eventually, James shrugs and wrinkles his nose. “You reek.”  
  
This earns him a surprised glance and an almost-twitch of lips and James can’t think of a better reward.  
  
“Well, so do you, you muppet.”  



	6. Chapter 6

  
  
They get back to what they already think of as ‘their floor’ just in time to be intercepted by a sympathetic nurse who tells them that Richard’s condition is considered ‘critical but stable’ and that he is kept in recovery and under close observation until further notice.   
No visitors allowed whatsoever.   
  
They thank her profoundly and risk a cautions smile at each other.   
It’s good news, as in that everything which isn’t outright bad news is good news. More could hardly have been expected and anything less would have pretty much meant the unthinkable.  
  
Expectations are low, these days.   
  
While Jeremy is taking a shower in the tiny bathroom cubicle adjacent to Richard’s, James borrows a hoodie from Richard Porter, slips out the back door and skirts a scatter of journalists to run over to a nearby shopping centre. He buys himself a change of underwear and a new shirt. They will have to go home to get some stuff sooner or later, but for now, this will have to do.  
  
On a whim he adds another package of cheap XXL boxers and a random t-shirt, feeling silly and embarrassed but sure Jeremy will appreciate it.  
And mock him for it.  
Later.  
When everything is back to normal.  
  
James can’t wait.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Jeremy wouldn’t be Jeremy if he didn’t at least react with a wink and a lewd grin to James shoving the newly bought items at him on the way into the bathroom to take a shower himself. James, although embarrassed, is disproportionally elated that he does. That he is himself enough to react that way.  
  
As the weak trickle of water drizzles over James’ face, he still feels the blush on his cheeks. But he is more than grateful for the small semblance of normalcy.  
  
By the time James has finished and feels slightly more human, Jeremy has procured a second chair from somewhere.   
It probably wasn’t that difficult a thing to do, but James has avoided it so far. He isn’t sure if it shouldn’t be considered jinxing it, daring to have the expectation that they will stay here long enough to need it. But he doesn’t say so. Saying something out loud, after all, would be jinxing it even more.  
  
Breakfast is out of the question and neither has the energy to shave.  
They go in search of coffee together, but forego the newspapers. They couldn’t possibly bear to see either the grainy images of an overturned jet-car or a helicopter airlifting who they know is Richard towards the hospital. There was more than enough of that on TV yesterday, during the reruns of James’ speech to the press.  
  
They find decent coffee in the maternity ward cafeteria (courtesy of a friendly hint from Nancy, the nurse on duty) and even James goes for a cup, strong and black. Today is not a tea day.   
  
They take it down to the storage room where most of the crew is still gathered and they get promptly swamped with offers of running errands, stopping by their homes to get them stuff or rescheduling appointments for them.  
  
Neither of them acknowledges the fact that if anything goes even slightly wrong at this point, they’ll be home by the afternoon.  
  
Jeremy wordlessly shakes his head to all and any offers but James hands his keys over to Iain, asking for someone to check on Fusker. He forcefully reminds himself, once again, that this is not jinxing in any way. No matter when he’ll be home, Fusker needs checking up on as soon as possible.   
He will call the elderly neighbour who usually takes care of the cat when he’s away as soon as possible.   
Just not quite yet. Not until there is at least some sort of prognosis.  
  
Then, even though Andy offers to do it, Jeremy calls first Mindy and then Richard’s parents and gives them a very toned-down version of the night’s events.  
  
Mr and Mrs Hammond are wonderful people and very understanding, if not secretly glad, of the fact that Richard has named Jeremy his next of kin. Their health isn’t what it used to be and they are grateful for the TopGear team handling everything, as well as for Jeremy and James taking over the vigil.  
  
Jeremy tells them not to bother coming down as Richard probably won’t be in his room all day. Mrs Hammond suggests a visit anyway, if only to have tea with James and Jeremy and ‘take their minds off things’.   
James is incredibly relieved when Jeremy manages to very kindly, very gently, very thoughtfully, very un-Jeremy-like, dissuade her. He wants his mind to stay right where it is. With Richard, first and foremost. And with Jeremy, second.  
  
He keeps being amazed and intrigued by this new side of Jeremy, though. He has known this loud, brash, outspoken man for almost four years, has liked him from the very first day, called him one of his best friends for the better part of these years, spent more time with him than he would have with a spouse. And while he has always known that Jeremy is a good man, is, deep down, a very caring, very sensitive man, he has never seen him this considerate, this openly emotional, ever before. It’s as if an armour has been stripped away and James is finally getting a full view of the kind of man Jeremy tries so hard to hide from the world.   
To have him on display like this is nothing short of shocking.   
  
He is glad he can take a step back again, though, for now at least. Let Jeremy handle things again, be their rock again, solid and immovable, the way it used to be.  
  
The way it should be.  
  
But he vows to himself to never again let it get to the point where Jeremy has to handle everything by himself. To never again think of Jeremy as this superhuman being he likes to present himself as, to never again let himself be lulled into forgetting how deeply things affect him. And maybe, James thinks, maybe even he, with his fucked up childhood that at least gave him an ability to distance himself from emotions, might be better equipped to deal with this mess than Jeremy with his emotions running so deep.  
  
But for the time being, James does what comes easiest and hands responsibility back over to Jeremy, hoping that feeling in charge will help Jeremy getting himself back under control.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Although the crew is amazing and everyone does their best to be unassuming and quietly supportive, their care and presence start to grind after a while and James and Jeremy are drawn back to the quiet of Richard’s empty room. Nancy, the kind nurse from earlier, even succeeds where Andy and the crew failed and gets some solid food and something other than coffee into them. She reassures them that Richard’s status hasn’t changed in the meantime and if nothing unexpected happens, he will soon be downgraded to ‘serious but stable’. Which means he would be allowed back into his room.  
  
James pulls the single newspaper-sheet Andy had given him out of his breast-pocket and starts filling in the cross-word. It’s meditative and familiar and he’s soon dropping off intermittently, although he doesn’t manage to entirely fall asleep.  
  
It’s been quiet for a while, Jeremy also half-dozing on the cot in the corner of the room, when a doctor appears. They both shoot up, instantly awake, naturally expecting bad news. The doctor does indeed look rather grim as he asks Jeremy into his office.  
  
He does lift an eyebrow when Jeremy snags James by the sleeve on his way past and drags him out of the chair and through the door with him. But he doesn’t say anything when he notices the white-knuckled grip Jeremy isn’t loosening all the way down the corridor.  
  
It turns out to be _THE TALK_.  
Capital letters, italics.  
  
Even though the haemorrhaging in Richard’s brain has stopped and the swelling has gone slightly down and he is considered stable for the moment, there is no guarantee as to what might happen. With every hour that goes by, the chances of him waking up become slimmer. Even more damage to the brain might be done that simply cannot be monitored. Or avoided.  
Jeremy, as his next of kin, needs to be aware of his responsibilities. Of the choices he’s facing. Might have to make.  
  
Jeremy sits motionless, fingers clutching James’ shirtsleeve, face ghostly white and completely blank, while James can only look on, listen, in absolute horror.  
  
He has to support Jeremy back to Richard’s room, literally make him put one foot in front of the other, and as soon as they get there, Jeremy staggers into the bathroom and James, standing indecisively in the middle of the room, can hear him being violently sick.  
Repeatedly.  
  
There is the sound of flushing, running water, then Jeremy comes back out, stumbles over to the cot and continues to lie there, facing the wall, blanket over his head, for a long, long time.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richard is wheeled back into his room late in the afternoon. He doesn’t look much different.  
White and still as before, but with a huge bandage around his head and a few additional bruises.  
If from flailing around in the grips of the seizure or from Jeremy trying to hold him down a bit too forcefully is hard to say.  
  
Jeremy is up from his cot in a flash but almost immediately aborts his forward motion, backing up instead, slowly, until he’s pressed against the wall, ashen-faced and ill-looking.  
The same utterly defeated man he was when James first walked smack bang into the middle of this nightmare.  
  
The orderlies make sure Richard is comfortable and hooked up properly, a nurse double-checks everything and then they are alone. Again.  
  
Jeremy hasn’t moved at all and James feels something in himself shift.  
  
It’s his turn again.  
  
For all the insecurity he’s felt before, for all that he didn’t know how to deal with the situation before, for all that he wants to burrow into a hole and let others deal with the world, this is where Jeremy needs him and he is not going to disappoint.  
  
“Jez, come on”, he coaxes, reaching out.   
Doing again what has been so difficult, well-nigh impossible for him to do mere days ago, he initiates contact, touches an elbow.  
Jeremy looks at him blankly, far away again in a world of his own, confused and hurting.  
James urges him over to the bed and sits him down in the chair that was previously his, the one on the side with fewer of the tubes, the one Jeremy let him have straight from the beginning.  
  
He sits carefully on the edge of the bed himself and takes Richard’s hand, moves it closer, now soft and pliant to his touch, nothing compared to the cramped claws of last night.  
  
Jeremy reaches out of his own accord and James lets him have it, lets him latch on as if it were a lifeline.  
  
James places his own hand over both of theirs and rests the other on Jeremy’s shoulder, thumb brushing skin just above the collar in soothing little motions.  
  
“He’s not going do that to us”, he says, voice firm. “He just won’t. He knows how much he means to us. He knows what it would do to us. And he’s not going to put us through that.”  
  
Jeremy’s eyes flick up to James’ for a moment, full of disbelief and something that resembles hope, before returning to Richard’s prone form, hovering over the bruises and the equipment. The bandage and the still, pale face.   
He shakes his head minutely, shoulders sagging even more.  
  
“Jeremy, we’re talking about our Hamster, here”, James says softly. “Give him some credit, huh?”  
  
Jeremy huffs a breath at that, a tiny sound, and it could be acknowledgement, or a sob, or maybe even a snort.  
  
“But even if not”, James continues calmly, waiting for Jeremy’s eyes to meet his, so brim-full of emotions James has to fight not to look away, “even if he can’t fight his way out of this one, if this proves too much even for someone as stubborn as him, we are in this together. Every decision you have to make, we make together. Every meeting, every talk, every statement you do, we do together. I’m here. You are not alone, Clarkson.”  
  
Jeremy holds James’ gaze for several seconds before looking down at Richard again. The thumb currently not interlaced with both Richard and James’ hands comes up, brushing carefully over a marble-white cheekbone.   
  
The seconds drag.  
  
The words, when they come, are barely a whisper.  
  
“Neither are you, May.”  



	7. Chapter 7

They stay where they are, three men close together, three hands one on top of the other, two holding tightly while the third lies limp and accepting, listening to time passing by with every beep of the heart monitor, every hiss of the respirator.  
  
Eventually James gets up to use the bathroom and only when the simple state of being upright makes him feel dizzy, only then does it register that he hasn't slept or eaten properly for close to three days.  
  
Jeremy doesn't react at all to James moving about, doesn’t even look up.  
So, after relieving himself and a quick splash of water to his face, James decides to lie down on the cot for a while and try to get some rest. For his body, at least.  
His mind, he is certain, will not comply.  
  
But, surprisingly, although he is apprehensive, afraid of nightmares even worse than reality, he falls into a semblance of sleep almost immediately.  
  
It is of the fitful kind, full of breathless screams and muddled shadows and tumbling head over heels through technicolour.  
Of jerking awake over and over again to Jeremy's low, reassuring voice.  
“'S alright. Still breathing. Go back to sleep.”  
  
When the night nurse enters to check on Richard in the small morning hours, James gives up on sleep. He goes to take a shower and by the time he’s finished, the nurse is done. Jeremy is still in the same position James left him in, apparently dozing, eyes half closed, hand glued to Richard's.  
  
James drags the second chair over and settles on Richard's other side.  
He longs to say something, to Richard, or to Jeremy, but he is at a complete loss as to what that something could possibly be. In the end, he makes do with closing a hand over Richard's upper arm and, leaning back in his chair, starting to mentally compile a list of things he needs to get from his place as soon as he can.  
  
The heart monitor beeps steadily and the respirator whirrs almost soothingly and James feels himself dropping off again, more at ease in the uncomfortable chair than he had been on the cot in the corner when, suddenly, Jeremy startles him with a loud snort, followed by a chuckle.  
  
It's so out of place, so unexpected, James doesn't quite know if he should tell him off or chuckle along. He decides on a bit of a glare but Jeremy doesn't even seem to notice, looking affectionately down at Richard.  
  
"He was such a cocky bastard", he murmurs, mostly to himself.  
  
"_Is_", James corrects, sharply. "He _is _a cocky bastard. Christ, Jez."  
  
Jeremy's eyes snap up, horrified. "No! God, no, not... not that. I was just thinking about when I first met him. At the audition. He was such a cocky bastard, got straight in my face, zero respect." He chuckles again. “After one minute, I thought he was a pretentious arse. After two minutes, we laughed. After three, I knew that I wanted him.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Jeremy's memories of his first meeting with Richard prompt James to retell his, the chance meeting with the young, cocky Brummie whom he'd outbid at a bike auction not even recognizing him as the new bloke off TopGear, and who had then unceremoniously invited himself round to James' for ‘a bit of tinkering and a go on it’ ("it's the least you can do, mate, don’t you know you have just shattered my bloody dreams, man!?"). This, of course, had then been of paramount importance to James getting the job of jobs a couple of months later. Richard had come by to have a look at James’ new ancient Triumph, casually mentioning on his way out that “Jeremy has fired Dawe, mate. No one knows it, yet. I left you his contact information on the counter. Just call him and tell him about your Bentley. No, don’t ask. Say I made you do it.”  
  
One story leads to the next and both are soon laughing, through quite some tears, granted, but genuinely laughing, egging each other on, fondly sharing their favourite moments with Richard over his still body, talking about him, but also _to_ him, reminding him of all the good times they’d had, and "Seriously, mate, we can't lose this. You've _got_ to pull through, there’s still so much for us to cock up."  
  
It's cleansing somehow, refreshing, and most of all grounding, positivity oozing in and taking over.  
  
"He's such a pikey", James says eventually, eyes crinkling fondly after one more story of how Richard had tricked Jeremy into riding with him on his motorbike. And up a mountain pass road, at that.  
  
Jeremy drags his knuckles along Richard's cheekbone, rasping over stubble and skin stretched tight with the swelling. "That he is. But he’s _our _pikey."  
  
“Yes”, James says pensively. “Tell you what, though, that's exactly what amazes me so much." And it’s maybe a bit too revealing. But in the surreal atmosphere of the Leeds General Hospital ICU in the early morning hours, even James can’t be bothered to care. "I’ve never managed to get over that. I mean, it was she who walked away, wasn’t it? And I just can't get my head around it. Why would you willingly walk away from someone like Richard? It seemed like he adored her. Positively adored her. I’ve really always wondered. He never said what happened."  
  
Jeremy goes very, very still.  
  
James almost misses it, preoccupied with his own thoughts as he is.  
But when he does realise, when the implications crash into place, his heart plummets right with them and his stomach clenches with something that can only be called jealousy.  
  
"You know”, he says, flatly. And it hurts. It hurts that Jeremy knows, knows something this important about Richard when James doesn’t.  
  
Of course he has always known that they are closer and yes, Jeremy may have denied that, but he knows, should have known, it was always obvious, they...  
  
"He didn't tell me, if that's what you're thinking."  
  
"No?"  
  
“No.”  
  
“Uhm… who did, then?”  
  
“The Missus.”  
  
“The… what? Why? When??”  
  
“While throwing all my crockery at me.”  
  
“Bloody Norah, Jez?”  
  
Jeremy grins humourlessly. “Apparently he’d confided certain homosexual tendencies to her. Not to mention his occasional rather adult fantasies about his co-presenters. He didn’t want to keep it secret from her. Thought she would be okay with it. No keeping secrets, always being honest with one another, yaddayadda. You know, that modern relationship bullshit.” He looks at Richard. Affectionate and with no small amount of sympathy. “Now see where it’s left him.”  
  
James gapes.  
  
It’s not so much about the homosexuality.  
Or bisexuality, which is what it probably is, not that Jeremy would bother with details. James wouldn’t have put that past Richard, not really. Richard is curious, impulsive and open-minded. And James couldn’t care less. That’s more Jeremy’s area. Or so he’d thought. But obviously… very obviously Jeremy also couldn’t care less. And that’s a bit of a surprise.  
But, well, the biggest surprise of all, the thing that stuns James most of all, is the fact that he never suspected. Not for a single second. And that Jeremy has known. For years. And never breathed a single word. To anyone. Anyone at all.  
  
“She kinda blamed _me_, you know”, Jeremy shrugs. “Which is alright, it’s what everyone does, kind of a natural reaction, I don’t mind. It’s just that I really don’t know how I could be made responsible for _that_, you know? I didn’t exactly seduce him or anything now, did I? Never had a clue anyway before she came up to my house, stood in my kitchen, screamed and cried and smashed everything she could get her hands on. Did throw it all at my feet rather than my head. Gotta to give her that, at least, I guess.”  
  
James blinks, and this scene smashes to the forefront of his mind, clear against the stark white hospital background. It had been roughly two years ago, shortly after Richard had moved out of the big country house. James had collected him from his flat in town for a bit of distraction the only way he knew how to provide. After a crazy bike ride through the countryside, they’d turned up at Jeremy’s unannounced. Jeremy had been a bit guarded but chipper enough when he’d let them in.  
So they really hadn’t thought too much of it when there hadn’t been a single sensible item to eat or drink from in the place. Jeremy was a bachelor, after all, and a bit weird on the best of days. They had drunk their wine out of plastic toothbrush cups and ordered pizza which they’d dished out straight on the wooden table (the grease stains are still there). James had made tea in the pot and they’d taken turns sipping it through a plexiglas straw. It had all been rather funny and when asked, Jeremy had just shrugged and said that he’d given everything to charity. Everything. Because he didn’t like it anymore. And that he hadn’t gotten around to buying anything new, yet.  
They’d been drunk enough to find it ragingly hilarious and declared Jeremy a complete moron.  
  
James shakes his head to clear it but the image stays with him.  
Over the years, they’d relentlessly made fun of Jeremy for it and he’d never said a thing. Never told anyone that he knew Richard’s secret, never let anything slip. And, most astonishing of it all, he’d actually managed to not let it alter his interactions with Richard in the least.  
  
“That night, with the pizza and the toothbrush cups…” James breathes. “We took the piss for months.”  
  
“Yeah, same week”, Jeremy shrugs. “I’d only just thrown all the debris out when you two walked in on me. But I was glad you got a laugh out of it. It was a depressing enough time for all three of us.”  
  
"Does he...?"  
  
"No, of course he doesn't know that I know", Jeremy says impatiently. "I _can_ actually keep a secret, you know."  
  
"But if he feels…"  
  
"It's irrelevant, James. I figured he'll either make a move, which is when we'll deal with it, or he won't, which is just as well. You don't have to act on every attraction you feel. Hell, we would never get any filming done if _I _did!"  
  
James bites his lip, completely ignoring any implication that might or might not be part of that particular statement.  
It's exactly what his father deems impossible. What James has grown up to fear. The one thing he has never dared put to test. Is it possible to feel attraction, affection, and not act on it? Wouldn't it be better to just steer clear, stomp on it, keep a distance?  
  
James feels at the same time awed and jealous of Jeremy's nonchalance.  
This is exactly what he has been denied, has been denying himself, for all of his life.  
Better be safe than sorry. Better never admit to anything, not even to oneself. Better to build walls and keep a distance. _'If I ever notice you acting like a fucking fairy, you're done being my son, lad._'  
But he has denied himself so much more than that. Simple closeness. Companionship. Even friendship.  
  
He is pretty much done.  
  
He grins. "Stop carrying the world all by yourself, Clarkson. Let us help. Christ."  
  
"I'm quite alright, usually. It's just that this", Jeremy gestures with kind of a lopsided grin, “this is a bit much, even for me.”


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory Interlude, Richard POV.

__

He's floating.  
  
Under... well, not water, not really.  
It's more like a dark, murky substance, a bit like motor oil, and he wonders how it is possible to breathe in it. But then he doesn't seem to be breathing anyway, so that's probably ok.  
  
It's mostly rather peaceful, just drifting here, all alone, not thinking about much of anything. Resting.  
There are comforting noises all around him, wavering in and out of his consciousness, sometimes letting up for a while but always returning just before the silence gets too much.  
  
Sometimes, or maybe always, there's something in here with him, a presence, a creature from far down below. And sometimes it comes up to his level, and then it tries to pull him under, draw him away, down to its own level. Maybe. He doesn’t know what it wants, where it wants to take him, he never sees it, but he knows it’s there and he knows it’s bad news and he’s scared of it. So, so, so scared.  
So when it grabs him he fights it, struggling and kicking against the clutches trying to draw him deeper until eventually, so far always, he's being released again, allowed to buoy higher, to continue his peaceful floating. So far he’s always managed to get away. He doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know what would happen if he gave in, good or bad, but he doesn't care to find out.  
  
He's usually quite good at fighting it off, anyway. Sometimes it takes barely more than a kick, sometimes he needs to pull a few punches, but it seems to give up rather quickly.  
It’s scary. But he can deal with it.  
  
Except for last time. Last time it had almost gotten the better of him. Dragging him further and further down into even darker darkness, until he was screaming, screaming until his throat was raw and his lungs threatened to burst, but not a sound would make it to his ears. He remembers thrashing, kicking, biting, fighting with all his might until he couldn't anymore, until he was overwhelmed and exhausted and everything faded to black.  
  
He's faintly surprised to be back now, closer to the surface than ever before, with a heavy weight on his arm keeping him where he is, his other hand holding onto something to stay firmly in place.  
He's not questioning it. It seems like a good thing.  
The murmuring noise is back, too, providing an anchor, a sense of comfort. Of safety.  
  
He's dimly aware that he doesn't belong here, that he has to move on sooner or later.  
Either up, or down.  
He should make up his mind.  
  
He looks upwards and there’s a dim pinprick of light high above him. He’s seen it before. It comes and goes at irregular intervals.  
  
He briefly considers trying to reach it, trying to figure out how to move towards it.  
But it’s so far away and it seems like a tremendous effort.  
For the moment, with the monster at bay, he feels quite content where he is.  
  
He spreads his arms, lets the comforting noises wash over him, and keeps on floating.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

The sudden excitement during the ‘obs’, the nurse’s routine checks, is new.  
She hurries out after performing only the first few of a series of reflexion tests and, returning seconds later with a doctor in tow.  
  
Jeremy immediately moves out of the way almost knocking his chair over in his haste, but James stays where he is, hand glued to Richard's forearm. He couldn't move even if he wanted to, fear grabbing him and keeping him immobile in his seat with icy fingers.  
  
Something's going to give now, that much is clear. Good or bad. James is terrified.   
  
Unbelievably, incredibly, excitingly, it turns out to be good news.  
  
There has been a reaction to the pupillary stimuli and, according to the doctor, this is a tremendous step in the right direction.   
He almost immediately refutes his own statement, though, telling them not to get their hopes up too high, not to expect anything at all as there is still no saying if and when Richard will wake up. And even if he does, what condition he will be in.   
But it is the first good news they’ve had in days and they won't be discouraged, won’t let any amount of grim realism extinguish the spark of positivity they have kindled through their night of talking and that is now amplifying into a tiny flame of hope.  
  
Jeremy phones Richard’s parents and James phones Mindy, and then, in the afternoon, Jeremy does agree to give his long overdue press conference, still riding high from the morning's good news.  
  
James watches from the sidelines, careful to be standing just inside Jeremy's peripheral vision.  
Even if he can't be up there with him, can’t go through that again, through being the centre of attention while at the same time trying to keep himself together, even though he can’t, he knows that his presence alone will make a difference to Jeremy.   
And that’s an astonishing thought all by itself.   
  
Jeremy does the most amazing job.  
He looks haggard and drawn, but his performance is right up there with the very best of them.  
Just the right amount of bluster versus care, a couple of jokes strewn in before getting serious again.  
Some flippancy, tinged with worry, the perfect dose of his usual TV-persona but with a dash of honesty mixed in.  
  
Word has come that the cause of the accident might have been a blown tire and Jeremy reveals this with not a small amount of satisfaction, smothering any claims of Richard being not skilled enough to drive a jet car, tongue-in-cheek making it clear that if anyone is allowed to criticise Richard’s driving, it’s him, and him alone.  
  
James can hardly bear the tight feeling in his chest and it takes him a moment to identify it as pride. They are alright, they are functioning, and together they can make it.  
  
Andy is up there with Jeremy, giving his own heartfelt statement and trying to keep things civilized, trying to field the most inappropriate questions, quell them before they even get asked, drawing from his huge knowledge of the who’s who in television and newspaper journalism.  
  
A few of the haters get through anyway, though, and Jeremy has to deal with far more than his unfair share of accusations and sneering.  
He grinds his teeth, is firm but courteous, no swearing, no talking back, everything the BBC could wish for him to be, and James can't help but be annoyed at how a tragedy seems to be what was needed to make the powers that be realise how incredibly professional Jeremy really is.  
If they even do.  
He wouldn't put it past them to find fault in even this most flawless of performances.  
  
As soon as the last question is answered, Jeremy makes a beeline for the nearest toilet facilities, clearly having scouted them out beforehand.  
  
Andy, still in the process of wrapping up, still the focus of camera attention, casually flicks his index finger at Iain and before he's even done with the gesture, Iain is on his feet and moving down the corridor, ending up leaning mock-casually against the door with his arms crossed.  
  
James’ heart swells. He is beyond proud and grateful to be a part of this team, this crew, this _family _where everyone is looking out for everyone else.  
  
Andy puts a stop to questions still being shouted out, not that they could answer them even if they wanted to, and, after a final thank-you to the air ambulance and hospital staff, comes over to stand next to James. Acquaintances and press members file past them and Andy nods his goodbyes and makes non-committal noises through teeth gritted into a terse smile.   
  
“Thank you”, he mutters in between hand-shakes and unwelcome shoulder slaps. “James, I can’t thank you enough for buying him the time he needed to be able to do that.”  
He raises his hand in an aborted motion towards James’ shoulder, the kind of movement James only now realises he has seen so many times when people have wanted to touch him but remembered, just in time, how much he dislikes it.  
  
This time, though, he doesn’t leave it at that. He doesn’t act as if he hadn’t noticed, doesn’t ignore it.   
This time, he reaches out himself and tightly clasps Andy’s elbow.  
“It was nothing”, he says, locking eyes with his boss. His friend.  
And he means it.  
  
Andy looks slightly startled by the unexpected contact but recovers quickly and smiles. Genuinely, this time. Warmly. "Yes, James, it was. You have no idea how much that first statement of yours was worth. Thank you.” He glances towards the door blocked by Iain. "Now please go and look after him, yeah?"  
  
James has been out of his depth so far and for so long, he doesn't even care anymore.   
He hardly remembers when the last time was that he felt truly at ease, confident in what he had to do, but he thinks so far he hasn't dealt too badly.   
With a parting slap to Andy’s shoulder he strides purposefully down the hallway to the toilets, shoots Iain a grateful smile and ducks past him and inside.  
  
One stall is locked and James selects the one beside it.  
He does take the time to grab a paper towel from the dispenser next to the sink, wetting it, and uses it to close the toilet lid, wiping it down before sitting on it. He isn't that far gone, yet.  
  
He scoots back, leaning against the cistern. "Let me know when you're ready to leave", he says, settling in for the wait.  
  
There's no sound or acknowledgement from the other stall.  
  
James lets his head fall back against the tiles and starts to hum a simple little melody, drumming the beat with his fingers on his knee.   
It's not a conscious decision, it just comes to him and he goes with it.   
Making his presence known, waiting patiently.  
  
It takes several minutes for the lock on the other stall to turn.   
Even longer for the door to open.  
  
Through his own open door James watches Jeremy stand by the sink, splashing water onto his ghastly pale face.   
  
James stays where he is, keeps up his humming.  
  
Jeremy grabs the edge of the sink with both hands, hard. He exhales loudly, looks up and stares at his own reflection in the mirror.   
  
"We can go now", he says eventually, to his own face, and only now does James stand up.  
  
He walks towards the door but stops long enough to run a hand down Jeremy’s arm, all the way from shoulder to wrist, ghosting over fingers clenched around porcelain in white-knuckled grip, squeezing ever them so briefly. It makes Jeremy let go of the sink and turn around with a lop-sided little smile, and James knows that, by sheer instinct, he’s done the right thing again.  
  
He isn't the kind of man who has often allowed himself to trust his instincts in the past. To risk it, and get it right, is new, and elating, and wonderful.  
  
He walks out of the door first, quickly scanning the hallway for stray press people, but there's only Iain, still leaning on the door jamb.  
  
James gives him a nod and a thumbs’up, can hear him and Jeremy exchange a brief, backslapping hug, then he purposefully leads Jeremy out of the room and back to Richard without so much as looking left or right.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Shortly before visiting hours end, Richard's parents come by again.  
  
This time, it’s James who manages the brunt of the conversation.  
Jeremy is friendly but quiet and withdrawn, and obviously exhausted. The act he's had to put up in front of the press has clearly taken its toll.  
James, on the other hand, feels fully capable of the task, retelling the events of the encouraging check-up of the morning and maintaining a positive attitude throughout.  
  
The elderly couple is almost out the door when Richard's mother looks back at their son, tuts, and, shaking her head, remarks on how he “looks like a punk, with his hair half shorn off. They really should have gone for all of it, if they had to.”  
  
James waits until the door has firmly closed behind them, before allowing himself to look over at Jeremy, finding a matching grin on his face.  
  
Jeremy tuts, and they both dissolve into laughter.  
  
Richard does in fact look like a punk.  
They aren't so sure he wouldn't actually like it.


	10. Chapter 10

On day five, with the doctor assuring them that Richard seems stable enough for now and they don’t need to expect the worst at any given moment anymore, James decides to make a trip to London to check on Fusker, get a few things in order and get some essentials from his own home and Jeremy's London flat.  
  
Just the thought of leaving is dreadful. Finding the strength to actually do so is tremendously difficult.  
  
After Jeremy has handed over his own spare key to James’ house (James’ own is still wit Iain or whoever had volunteered to drive up and check on the cat), it still takes James a full two hours of procrastinating and finding excuses.  
Jeremy doesn't say anything. No mocking, but no support, either.  
James is grateful that Jeremy allows him to do it in his own time. That he doesn't have to justify his prolonged lingering over Richard.  
  
He does manage to work up the nerve to leave, eventually.  
His phone stays switched off during the entire journey. If something happens, he wants to hear it with Jeremy by his side. Not alone in a car on a busy motorway. Or in front of his lovely cat-watching neighbour.  
  
He arrives back at the hospital late at night and in a horrible state, sweaty, panicky and breathless, having managed to convince himself that the worst indeed has happened.  
He runs all the way from the parking lot, up stairs and through endless corridors, until he finally, finally stumbles through Richard's door and straight into Jeremy's waiting arms, into a firm, calming embrace.  
  
Nothing has changed for the worse.  
  
Or for the better.

* * *

  
  
  
After almost two weeks, James and Jeremy have, for all intents and purposes, moved into Richard's room.  
  
There's still only the one cot, but the concept of night and day has pretty much lost its meaning anyway and they just sleep whenever they are tired, taking turns.  
  
James has even slept on a woollen blanket on the floor a couple of times and Jeremy, much to the nurses' annoyance, has been known to fall asleep curled up right next to Richard, pressed as close as he can go without dislodging any of the medical equipment.  
  
Mindy calls regularly, debating whether she should fly in. They might be divorced, but she and Richard still love each other dearly and talk often. Together they all three decide that it wouldn’t make sense at this point in time, that she'd rather save the trip for when Richard is recovering and will know she's there.  
  
James has brought his and Jeremy's laptops from London, but while Jeremy has gone back to a semblance of working, sitting against the headboard next to Richard and keeping up a running commentary while tapping away at something or other, James still feels miles off and mostly spends his time sitting in a chair next to Richard's bed, holding his hand and staring at his still, blank face.  
  
There haven’t been any further improvements to Richard's neurological responses, not since that slight change more than a week ago. The doctors are back to growing more concerned with every passing day. Richard’s life might not be in immediate danger anymore, but his chances of waking up and recovering are diminishing with every additional hour in a coma.  
  
Jeremy is doggedly optimistic and even James, knowing him as well as he does, can’t quite determine how much of it is real, how much for the benefit of the people around him and how much of it is him trying to convince _himself_.  
  
James still has nightmares about THE TALK and his best guess is that Jeremy needs a certain amount of denial to keep his sanity.  
  
He can’t really blame him.  


* * *

  
  
  
Part of the crew is still hanging around, having checked into nearby hotels and coming by regularly, keeping James and Jeremy updated on work-related stuff, running errands or just keeping them company.  
  
Now that Richard is out of immediate danger, he is allowed more visitors, the doctors even encouraging it, hoping it might stimulate him into waking up.  
  
James and Jeremy are astonished at how fast this harrowing ordeal has become their very own version of ‘reality', of 'normal'. At how fast routine has set in.  
They are grateful for the distraction, but they also cherish the quiet times when it’s just the three of them. When they are sometimes talking as if Richard were awake, sometimes sitting in companionable silence, but always, always feeling closer to each other than they ever have before.  
Than they would have ever thought possible.  
  
They try bringing in old Top Gear episodes on VHS and DVD and playing them for Richard, but it proves too painful. Every scene with Richard, happy and giggly and carefree, prompts memories of before. And after. And now.  
  
They talk. A lot. Idle conversations. Mostly about Richard. But they delve into more personal areas, here and there. Intimate territory. James is surprised by how much baggage Jeremy carries and Jeremy touched on some of James’ own, but by some unspoken agreement, for both their sakes, they try to steer mostly clear. There is enough emotional turbulences to navigate as it is. No point in adding on.  
  
There is one topic they don't broach. Never as much as touch.  
What will happen if Richard does actually wake up, but never recovers? What if he's permanently disabled? In need of constant care? Unable to interact with his surroundings?  
  
James knows, in the depths of his heart, that he would be there.  
Of course there won't ever be another TopGear without Richard, but James has options. He could continue working as a motoring journalist. Or put his music degree to some use. Or do whatever else comes up. It wouldn’t earn him as much, but he’d make do, and there would be more free time. And all of that free time, every minute of it, he would be there for Richard.  
  
And James knows, without a doubt, that Jeremy feels the same.  
Just recently, yesterday or maybe the day before, it’s hard to keep track, James had come out of the bathroom and found Jeremy had nodded off next to Richard, laptop still on his knees.  
Like many times before, James had carefully removed the laptop from its precarious perch on Jeremy’s legs in order to cover him with the thin blanket from the cot.  
He simply couldn't _not_ notice Jeremy's last google search.  
For accessible houses.  
In the Cotswolds.  
  
James would be totally on board with that plan.  
If he gets asked. Which, well, he hopes he will. Thinks he will. Would. Will. Would.  
For the time being, it's beside the point.  
  
Jeremy keeps on pretending not to be too worried and James outright refuses to think more than a couple of hours into the future.  
  
They each take their own measures to keep their sanity.

* * *

  
  
  
Jeremy once, just once, actively asks about James’ childhood and James tells him a little bit about his mother, who died much too young, and nothing at all about his father, who couldn’t deal. Jeremy looks at him with an intense expression and probably James has said too much in saying nothing, but he is far beyond caring.  
  
Jeremy owns him now, anyway. Heart and soul. So what’s another secret or two revealed.  
  
He almost tells him, then, about the lack of warmth in his childhood home, about the ban on showing emotions, about the fear of being discovered, of trying so hard to suppress who he really is, to live up to something he can’t be, all to try and bring a shadow of life back into the eyes of a man whose empathy had been buried together with the wife he’d adored.  
  
But then they move on and the moment is lost and it’s just as well because Jeremy has enough on his plate as it is and doesn’t need James unburdening his trauma on top of everything.  
  
As for Jeremy, James can only wonder how they haven’t figured Jeremy out a long time ago. Richard has an excuse. There has always been some amount of hero-worshipping involved on his part. He’d admired Jeremy from day one, disregarding many of his flaws.  
But all James has to blame is his own lack of perceptiveness. Granted, perceptiveness has never been his strongest suit, but now it seems so utterly obvious how much of an act Jeremy has put on for everyone, them included, that James can’t help but wonder how he could have been this blind.  
  
He’d always appreciated Jeremy’s inherently good heart, his humour, his loyalty. His carefree nature, his honesty and his ability to laugh at and about himself just as much as about everyone and everything else.  
And he’d quickly seen through much of his loudmouth, brash exterior and had liked the man almost on sight.  
  
What he hadn’t seen until now, though, is Jeremy’s self-inflicted loneliness.  
People swarm all around him even though he offends them left and right. He’s always part of a crowd. But there are only a very select few he lets close. And even these he keeps at arm's length.  
And it’s because of his constant, utter fear of being left, of getting hurt.  
  
Which makes this, Richard, possibly the person Jeremy let closest, on the verge of leaving him, all the more significant, all the more tragic.  
And James can’t imagine what it would be like if it happened, only that it would give Jeremy one more reason not to trust, not to let anyone close.   
To push away even those who are left.  
He knows he needs to be on guard.  
  
Because now that he’s caught on, he knows what to look out for.  
Knows that Jeremy would rather push people away than losing them.  
  
He is now able to pinpoint the exact moment when Jeremy had panicked about James getting too close.  
The abominable series 4, when nothing James had done had been good enough and he had spent many a sleepless night wondering what he’d done wrong. Only Richard had kept him from quitting, spending night after night with him in a pub, among beer and bewildered repeats of “But he likes you! I _know_ he likes you, I have no idea why he’s such an arse. He was like that to Jason and me, but then Jason was gone and it was like a switch flicked, I don’t know, he completely turned around. Maybe you just have to sit it out?”  
And Richard had been right. One morning towards the end of series 4, Jeremy had made James tea, exactly the way he liked it. And that had been it.  
Best friends henceforward.  
  
What James also realises only now is the issue of Jeremy’s protectiveness. In his fear of not being good enough, he’s constantly throwing himself into the line of fire, taking all the bashing of the press and people around him, hoping his friends might slip by unnoticed and stay with him.  
  
It’s enlightening how living in close quarters under exceptional circumstances makes you suddenly aware of the innermost strengths and weaknesses of people you thought you knew.  
  
This is Jeremy. Stubborn, argumentative, a little bit broken, but he's got heart. So much heart.  
  
For all the revelations, James only loves him more.


	11. Chapter 11

The day that changes everything, the day that has the potential to restore James' faith in the good in life, is simultaneously the best and the worst they’ve had since the day of THE TALK.  
  
Nineteen days. It has been nineteen days exactly and while Richard's main doctor keeps insisting that he hasn’t lost hope, not yet, he has also taken to subtly nudging Jeremy into thinking about alternative treatment options and long-time care. Like the Royal Hospital branch in Putney or the Frenchay facility in Bristol. There also seem to be possibilities in combination with private care, but Jeremy has so far managed to dodge all of the doctor's attempts at explaining, not even acknowledging that he gets the hints.  
  
James is fully aware that Richard, now that he's physically stable, can't stay here indefinitely. Especially not with the two of them also camping out in his room.  
But whenever he tries to think about what their next steps might be, his brain goes abruptly offline for a bit, so he's more than happy to follow Jeremy's lead, to bury his head in the sand for as long as possible. Once more he’s secretly glad that the bulk of the doctor's attention isn't directed at him.  
Jeremy is just so much more familiar and successful at ignoring people.  
  
But on this fateful day number nineteen, the doctor has apparently had enough.  
He drops a stack of brochures onto the bedside table instructs Jeremy to read them as there will be a meeting to discuss the situation the very next day.  
  
Jeremy freezes like a deer in the headlights, wild eyes trained on James. James can actually see his knees buckle before sinks into the nearest chair, pale and shaky and defeated.  
  
James turns to the doctor, ready to yell, ready to call him out on his insensitivity, but he stops short when he sees the sympathy, plain on the man's face. "I don’t enjoy this, Jeremy. I know how difficult it is for you. I have seen it more often than I care to remember. But we need a plan B and he chose you as his next of kin. He trusts you. I think we should honour that."  
  
There have been offers, so far declined, of seeing people, of talking to people, people who get paid to listen, offers made by both the hospital staff as well as the TopGear crew. James knows, without a doubt, that the time has come where they need to take them up on it. They have reached a point where they can't do this anymore without professional help.  
If they can do it at all.  
  
The doctor leaves with an apologetic nod and a quiet click of the door and Jeremy looks so ill James is afraid he will throw up right then and there.  
  
James blinks moisture out of his eyes and turns to the bed, looking down at Richard, who’s lying still and prone as ever. There is more, blurring his vision, so he blinks again and then again, bringing his hand up to gently rest against Richard's clammy cheek.  
  
"God Richard", he says, and he doesn’t care how choked he sounds, doesn’t care about the moisture spilling over, dripping onto Richard’s face. "Richard. Richard, please."  
  
And Richard twitches.  
  
It's more of a flinch. Indiscernible if into or away from the touch.  
  
James snatches his hand away as if burned.  
  
Jeremy hasn't noticed, still staring vacantly at nothing and James is far too shocked to make a sound.  
  
He reaches out again, trembling index and middle fingers connecting gently with Richard's temple, and there it is again.  
A twitch, eyes squeezing more tightly shut for just a second, a minute twitching of the eyelids, before his features smooth out again into stillness.  
  
"Richard", James breathes, "Rich."  
  
His legs give out very suddenly and he sits on the bed with a heavy thump.  
  
And now he has Jeremy's attention. He’s staring at James, motionless. Not daring to hope.  
  
Neither does James.  
  
He stares back for a breathless second, two seconds, before snapping back to reality, flailing for a moment before he manages to make his hand move, finding Richard's and squeezing tight.  
  
"Richard, Rich. Come on, mate. Can you hear me?"  
  
His voice is rough, awfully so, so much so it hurts his throat to get the words out, and there are splashes of water appearing on Richard's hand which is faintly squeezing back and James is at a complete loss, has no idea what to make of it at all and what to do with himself and then Jeremy is there, hugging him from behind, burying his face in James' hair, shaking, shaking and making strange sounds, like sobs, but not, like they are wrenched out from somewhere deep, deep within, painfully dragged to the surface against his will, desperate with hope, because this is it, this must be it, this is breakthrough, this is what they have been waiting for.  
  
This will decide everything.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
But of course it's nothing like in the movies, nothing like in the books.  
  
Richard doesn't suddenly open his eyes and mock them for worrying about him.  
He doesn't sit up and ask for a drink or give a long-winded emotional speech.  
  
But he does repeat the weak hand squeeze with Jeremy and then they are scrambling all over each other, trying to hug him and hug one another and call the nurses’ station all at the same time.  
  
And yes, this time Richard does react to the nurse's neurological tests.  
Not to her gentle requests, but to her causing him pain.  
  
He reacts so violently, in fact, that James is afraid if she keeps it up he might retreat back to the place where he's spent the last couple of weeks.  
He grunts in protest, trying to squirm away but getting nowhere in his weakened state, just managing to disconnect the oxygen monitor from his finger, which causes a blaring alarm.  
  
James and Jeremy stand off to the side, safely out of the way, looking helplessly on and it’s only when Richard almost manages to disconnect a drip, making a sound like a tortured animal, that James realises he's biting his lips bloody. He just can hardly take it, hardly watch, and he carefully slips his hand into Jeremy’s, seeking support.  
  
Jeremy takes it without hesitation, holding on tight.  
  
It's progress. It’s tremendous progress.  
It's obvious that their fighty little Hamster is somewhere in there, trying his best to claw his way out.  
  
He’s soon exhausted though, doesn’t react to any more of the nurse's commands in the doctor’s presence, but it doesn’t matter. James and Jeremy know what they saw.  
  
They are finally left alone for a moment, granted some privacy, and they sit on either side of Richard’s bed, touch him, hold on, murmur reassurances, promises, incredibly afraid that he will slip back into complete unresponsiveness.  
He can’t.  
They couldn’t bear it.  
They would make a deal with the devil, at this point.  
  
The nurse is now coming in to do her tests every 30 minutes.  
  
She is trying for verbal responses, trying to get Richard to open his eyes, to move his hands and toes. Mostly unsuccessfully but for a couple of barely detectable twitches, until Jeremy loses his patience right in the middle of about round fifteen of frustrating stillness.  
  
"Damn it Richard, will you finally cooperate?" he barks, startling James as much as the nurse. "We know you can do it. Don't you think we've waited long enough?"  
  
And Richard goes rigid, eyes moving behind his eyelids, limbs actually jerking in an effort to obey.  
  
"Huh", Jeremy says, utterly baffled.  
  
James finds it in him to smile.  
Jeremy might not realise it, but he and Richard, they would follow Jeremy’s instructions everywhere and in everything.  
  
It has to do with the firm belief in the reliability, truth and ability of someone.  
The Oxford Dictionary calls it _Trust_.


	12. Chapter 12

Over the next day or so, Richard keeps being responsive almost exclusively to Jeremy.  
  
People visit, crew, friends, family.   
The doctor hopes to stimulate his responsiveness through all the different voices, but Richard ignores most of them.  
Only Andy Wilman and Richard's mother seem to have a similar authority over him, occasionally succeeding in getting him to squeeze their hands back by applying a stern voice.  
  
As for James... no amount of raising his voice or giving orders does the trick. But then, owing to a rather embarrassing late-night episode that thankfully no one witnesses, James discovers that if he resorts to pleading, Richard will try his hardest to do as asked.  
Sadly, this approach doesn't work for Jeremy. Or anyone else but James, for that matter.  
  
So Jeremy, at the doctor’s request, does a lot of hollering and commanding voices, even though it very obviously bothers him. Bothers him a lot.   
  
James notices how he flinches from his own voice and it breaks his heart.   
Jeremy doesn't like to shout at Richard, neither of them likes to shout at Richard, neither of them likes to fight with Richard, never have, not in earnest. But the doctor keeps assuring them that, for the moment, it's the best Jeremy can do. Richard needs to make an effort, needs to keep fighting, and if the pressure of expectation is what makes him do it, so be it.   
James can actually see why this could work. Richard has always been eager to please Jeremy and if they can use this now to make him fight, come back, they gladly will.   
  
The more they work with him, the stronger Richard's responses get, especially on his right side. He is soon able to move his fingers, wiggle his toes and squeeze Jeremy and James’ hands more or less reliantly. Other people’s, too, when ordered to do so by Jeremy or begged by James.   
  
And then there are the instances when the nurses deliberately cause him pain to test his responses and stimulate his neurological system.   
And Richard fights it, fights it with all his feeble, uncoordinated, flailing might, making protesting noises, wriggling and writhing and trying to lash out, and if it weren't causing him so much discomfort, it would be the most wonderful thing James has seen in weeks.  
  
Fighty, angry Hamster is a sight to behold.  
  
Many of the tubes and monitors came off once Richard had been deemed physically stable, but there are still the oxygen cannulas in his nose, the clip attached to his finger which measures the oxygen levels in his blood, and several drips providing medication and nourishment. And, of course, the catheter.  
  
And the more agile Richard becomes, the more difficult it is to keep everything in place. He obviously doesn't like any of the devices and James and Jeremy are now devoting a big portion of their time to keeping Richard from squirming around and trying to remove them.  
  
It’s not like they would mind. Agile, exhausting Hamster is so much preferable to still, prone Hamster.   
  
Kind of unsurprisingly, “_off_”, is the first recognizable word out of Richard’s mouth and it has both James and Jeremy in a flood of tears.   
  
Again.  
  
Christ. They need to stop turning this into a fucking soap opera.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The obs continue to improve and eventually Richard starts to make an effort, starts to try and work with the nurses and doctors, at least when he isn't in a huff. Which, well, truth be told, isn’t too often. He gets especially uncooperative whenever someone tries to manhandle him into a different position or change his drips.  
  
Now grumpy Hamster starts showing through. As is resilient, determined Hamster.   
_Their_ Hamster.   
  
Things are looking up.   
  
But while James and Jeremy couldn't be more thrilled by the improvements, it isn’t long until the novelty starts to wear off, stagnation sets in again and the uncertainty grates more than ever.  
  
Is this it? Will he ever manage to fully wake up or will this be the most they’ll ever get?   
Will he spend the rest of his life like this, in a state close to waking up but never quite able to?  
And what if he does wake up?   
Oh, god, no, when, /when/ he does. Faith, James.  
  
The doctors say his right frontal lobe took most of the damage.  
The part of the brain responsible for recognition (_please just...no_), the ability to judge distances (_he will never drive again with that gone_), decision-making and problem-solving (_that's alright, that they can deal with, they will compensate for him_) and personality (_and that one is so terrifying they aren't even acknowledging it_).  
  
Jeremy grows more and more quiet yet again and James knows he doesn't sleep.   
No more than James himself does.  
  
They are both afraid something might happen, something crucial, and it will end in disaster just because they aren’t there, aren’t aware.   
Richard might slip back under and they aren’t there to hold him back.  
Richard might wake up and, because no one is there, no one is aware, will decide it’s not for him and give up after all.   
  
It’s foolish, probably, to think they have so much importance in the proceedings, to think that they could really make a difference, tip the scale, but it’s the one shred of control they have over the situation, and they desperately cling to it.   
  
And also, if James is honest, which he isn’t because superstition, he’d know they are both waiting for that one crucial moment.   
Which is not, according to the doctor, the moment Richard’s eyes open for the first time. Richard opening his eyes might change nothing.   
  
But what else do they have?   
What else do they have worth waiting for?  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The doctor is right. The moment, when it finally comes, is crushingly anticlimactic.  
  
James is trying to keep Richard from ripping the catheter out when he suddenly notices that his eyes are half open.   
  
James freezes for a full three seconds, heart jumping into his throat, pulse hammering in his ears, knowing he needs to keep it together.   
  
"Hello", he breathes at last, securing Richard's hands with one of his own and grabbing Jeremy’s elbow for attention with the other.  
  
Jeremy spins around and his breath hitches once.   
  
James doesn’t look up, gaze riveted on the sliver of chocolate brown visible below long lashes, but he dimly registers Jeremy sliding gently up on the bed next to Richard, reaching out a trembling index finger, carefully lifting Richards chin ever so slightly to try and look into his eyes. "Hey Rich… you with us, mate?" he asks, and James is amazed at the infinite tenderness in his usually so boisterous voice.  
  
But Richard looks right through them with no recognition whatsoever in his vacant eyes, and it's as heartbreaking to see as the defeated slump of Jeremy’s shoulders.   
  
Jeremy slides back off the bed then, turns his back and braces his arms against the nearest wall, scolding at it as if it has somehow brought the situation about.  
  
James watches him, watches him until the tension goes out of Jeremy’s shoulders and he hangs his head, but James stays where he is, with Richard, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, the prickling behind his eyelids, repeatedly brushing strands of oily, too long hair out of Richard's face.  
  
"It's ok, mate, take your time", he whispers.  
  
He doesn’t mean it.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The second time it happens is during a visit from Andy.   
  
The poor man is under a lot of pressure. The Beeb wants a decision about the continuation of the show, the investigation is still ongoing and the press is out looking for a scapegoat. Andy tries to keep everything away from them as much as he possibly can, standing between them and the outside world, and James just hopes the man’s own support network is good enough to catch him should he fall.  
  
Yes, he does feel guilty for letting Andy deal with it all mostly by himself, but he simply doesn’t have any resources left to put up with much of anything other than the situation they have to deal with in that hospital room.   
He fully understands that Andy is a bit frayed, though, and doesn’t blame him when things sometimes get a bit heated when he visits.  
  
He and Jeremy have been getting louder and more agitated in their discussion of what to do and how to do it and to whom, when Andy suddenly falls silent mid-rant, staring at Richard's unexpected half-mast gaze.  
  
Jeremy stares, too, motionless and with bated breath, but he doesn't seem able to make his legs move and so it's James who gets up and goes over to perch on the bed again, running his fingers through Richard's hair again, murmuring soothing nonsense.  
  
Richard's eyes are as vacant and unseeing as that last time, and after a couple of minutes they slip shut again without ever having made the slightest connection with James'.  
  
James strokes his knuckles down his cheek and is just about to get up when Richard mumbles something.  
  
"What was that?" James asks gently, with no real expectation of an answer.  
  
Richard mumbles again and just for good measure James combs his fingers through his hair, leans in close and prompts him once more.   
  
"Come again, mate? I didn't quite catch that."  
  
"Show", Richard slurs, indistinct and hazy, but James is leaning so close and he’s so tuned in to this man, there can be no mistaking it. "Show. Can do."  
  
And then he's out.  
  
It is the first unprompted interaction they've had.  
It is the first indication that Richard, on some level, is aware of his surroundings.  
  
It is day twenty-five and Richard is, as per the doctor's definition, awake.


	13. Chapter 13

The third time it happens, Richard fights James, and he fights him hard.   
  
James’ every touch is met with thrashing and flailing, his every effort at calming Richard down only makes it worse, makes Richard try to wriggle away, panting and keening like a hurt animal.   
  
Richard’s eyes are fully open now, pupils dilated, his gaze flittering around the room, trying to focus on James, on anything.   
Failing.  
  
It is obvious that he is confused and very, very scared. And that James trying to calm him only scares him more.  
  
“Whoah, whoah easy there”, Jeremy says to no one in particular. He’s kept in the background so far, like he had the last time, probably too shaken still by the first time, unable to cope with more hope, more disappointment.   
  
But he comes over now, gently pulls James away and takes over for him. And James lets him. Mortified but grateful he lets him.  
  
Jeremy captures Richard’s hands in his, sits, then scoots up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He pulls Richard into a half-sitting position up against his chest and hugs him close, effectively pinning him in place with strong arms. His mouth close to Richard’s ear he keeps up a steady stream of low, rumbling assurances, rocking him back and forth, back and forth.   
  
Richard’s struggling eases immediately and he whimpers and shivers into calming down, burrowing into Jeremy’s chest as far as he can go.  
  
James stares, not quite sure what just happened, what he did wrong, _if_ he did something wrong or if Richard just completely…. ‘_Damage to the left frontal lobe_’ he hears the doctor’s voice in his head. ‘_Recognition._ _He may recognise some, but not others.’ ‘Personality changes._’ The look Jeremy gives James over Richard's head is equal parts terrified and apologetic.  
  
James holds up his hands in surrender, accepting the fact, in his head if not in his heart, that it’s Jeremy who Richard needs, it’s Jeremy who Richard wants. Not him. Not James, James who scares him.   
He backs up slowly, blindly fumbling for the door handle and then, thank god, he’s out of there.   
  
An unknown nurse passes by, stops short at the sight of him and gives him an assessing look. "Are you alright, Sir?" the man asks and James turns around and runs.  
  
Down the corridor, the stairs, another corridor, out the door and into the pale sunlight, through the parking lot and into the gardens in front of the hospital building, where he crumples, dry heaves wracking his body.  
  
He is out in the open, anyone could see him, he might make headlines yet again, but he can't stop, he needs air, he is suffocating.  
  
It takes several minutes of retching and coughing and sucking in big gulps of air for the tight feeling in his chest to ease somewhat, for him to finally be able to at least stand up straight and look around.  
  
Apart from an elderly man in a wheelchair parked near a pot of flowers, drips attached to his arm and staring at him in confusion, there is no one around. James realises it must be very early in the morning.  
Grateful for small mercies he gives the man a cursory nod before striding past him and further into the little park on the hospital’s grounds.  
  
It's quite small and he circles it twice at a quick pace before coming to a halt at the edge of a little pond full of half-withered water lilies. It’s a rather peaceful place, actually, and suitably shrouded from view by a thick hedge of rhododendrons.  
  
James sucks in a huge breath of air and concentrates on pushing his feelings back down, locking them tightly away in a sturdy, solid compartment deep within himself, turning them off.  
  
He hasn't done this in a long time, not since the very beginning of this ordeal, hasn’t felt the need so much with Jeremy by his side.   
But doing it now he immediately feels the familiar, comforting numbness of calm and control rushing him, grounding him.   
He can deal with this. He can be whatever Richard needs him to be.   
Or doesn’t.   
  
And maybe, probably, he should just go back to this, to bottling things up. Maybe he shouldn't have let things get to him in the first place, maybe he shouldn't have let Jeremy in at all, it's all so much easier like this, just tuning out and functioning.   
It was all a mistake, from the very beginning, just another method of torturing himself, and being a burden to Jeremy.  
And no help to Richard whatsoever.  
  
And then Jeremy is there, right beside him, out of nowhere, not touching, thankfully not touching, just standing there, swallowing convulsively and James only needs a few more seconds, only a couple more and everything will be under control and he can just go back to not feeling, not hurting…  
  
"He's asleep", Jeremy says. And then, after a beat: "I'm going to assume that you know that this had nothing to do with you. But correct me if I'm wrong."  
  
And just like that, James' resolve is shattered, his control shot to hell.  
Just a few more seconds is all he would have needed, just a few more seconds. Why couldn't he get just a few more seconds?  
  
"He was scared of me!" he shouts. "Terrified!"  
  
“Yeah", Jeremy nods, "and before that he was scared of _me_. Or how do you think I got him to cooperate with the obs by shouting?"  
  
And yeah, that's... that's something James hadn't quite considered, that Jeremy would see it that way. What that might have done to Jeremy.   
  
Everything comes crashing back in at once. He feels like he’s being swept away by a huge wave, struggling not to drown and being yanked every which way and in several directions at once. And still. And still.   
Maybe this is still preferable, after all. Like this, he at least _gets_ Jeremy, understands him, like he never has before.  
And maybe, maybe he can even support him.   
  
"Sorry", he says meekly, after a beat.  
  
Jeremy nods, blinks.  
Then, without looking, he lifts the arm nearest to James in clear invitation.  
  
James hesitates for a second, remembering the comfortable emptiness beckoning just at the edge of his consciousness, the familiar detachment that has so far helped him through everything in life.   
But then he takes a good look at Jeremy, at this marvel of a man willing to put up with him and all his broken perceptions, and it's not even a choice anymore.  
  
He steps in and Jeremy drapes the waiting arm around his shoulders, draws him close. And James ducks his head a bit to lean it against Jeremy’s neck, effectively tucking himself away between his chin and shoulder. Tension washes off him in waves, leaving a more profound calm than he could have ever achieved by suppressing his feelings.  
  
They stand like that for a long time, gazing at the peacefully rippling water.  
  
"That's not it, though", James says eventually, barely more than a whisper. "It didn’t work because he's scared of you. It's because he respects you and he trusts you and he knows it must be important if you're shouting at him. He knows you have a reason and want what's best for him. That's why."  
  
Jeremy sighs. "Maybe. Maybe not."  
  
He steps away abruptly and turns to walk down the path back towards the hospital building.  
  
James stands for a moment, feeling empty and lonely and bereft, cursing himself for breaking the mood.   
  
But he follows, knowing that right now there is no way he could convince Jeremy.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The next time Richard's eyes snap open, James is just about to wipe his sweaty face with a damp towel.  
  
"’ello, cockface", Richard says, slowly but quite clearly, and he smiles brightly.  
  
James promptly drops the towel onto his face.  
  
"Hello, you", he manages through his own rather watery smile, scrambling to get the towel out of the way, Jeremy instantly appearing at his elbow.  
  
"'ello", Richard says again, then turns his head slowly towards the other movement he’s obviously made out, and that alone...  
  
"'ello, 'er'my", he says, and it's garbled almost beyond recognition, but it's the most beautiful thing either of them has ever heard.  
  
Jeremy is crying openly, face wet with tears, not even trying to wipe them away. He fumbles blindly for a hand to hold onto, and Richard squints at him in confusion.  
  
"Hello?" he tries again, enunciating carefully, very distinctly.  
  
"Hello", Jeremy croaks, and then "bugger", and then, sounding shocked, "no, not you!" and then, slightly more calm: "Hello."  
  
Richard focuses on James again, as if asking for an explanation, and James can't help his giddy laugh.  
  
"All good", he assures. "We’re good. You're good. We're just so, so happy to see you, you have no idea."  
  
It somehow seems to make sense to Richard. He settles back more firmly into the pillows with a contented sigh and closes his eyes.  
  
The smile lingers on his face long after he has passed out again.


	14. Chapter 14

For the next couple of days, Richard keeps drifting in and out of consciousness.  
  
His obs improve significantly, though, and while he doesn't always recognize James and Jeremy, every time that he does he greets them with a huge, loopy smile that has James' world turning upside down and his brain struggling to stay online.  
  
He wants to fall into that smile, wants to lose himself in the limbo, wants the world to stop turning and let him breathe for a bit. Wants to enjoy, revel in the progress, and let it be enough for a little while.  
  
But the doctors are pushing on already, pushing for the next milestones. There are endless tests to determine extent of brain damage and remaining sensory motor skills. They want to switch to solid nutrition as soon as possible.   
This is, after all, only the beginning.  
  
It’s stressful for Richard. He is weak and confused but he tries, he tries so hard to follow instructions. Only when they are given by either James or Jeremy, granted, but it doesn’t matter. It frustrates the nurses, but the doctor is, surprisingly, quite pleased with the fact.  
It shows that it’s less ‘can’t’ but mostly ‘don’t want to’ when he ignores everyone else.   
Which signifies that his ability for independent thinking is still intact. For making choices. And that he remembers, on a subconscious level maybe, but that he remembers James and Jeremy, remembers that he trusts them.   
  
And that’s a fact that has James inordinately elated.  
Who cares what his father thinks of him, what half of Britain's telly watchers think of him, what the press writes about 'the other bloke on TopGear', when he has Richard gazing up at him in complete trust, when he has Jeremy proudly smiling at them from across the room.  
It’s doing dizzying things to his self-esteem.   
He is invincible and they can all go to hell.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Of course it can't last.  
Of course the next setback is just around the corner.   
  
Richard clearly doesn’t have the slightest idea where he is and why.  
He lets James feed him yogurt and wash his face, lets Jeremy help him sit up or move around, but that's about the extent of it.  
  
He doesn't process the fact that he can't do things like he used to, doesn’t understand when they tell him so, his muscle memory trying to execute movements his damaged brain can't quite follow.  
  
One ill-fated attempt to get up and go to the bathroom by himself ends bloody and with a lot of pain for everyone involved and after that, James and Jeremy are on red alert at all times.  
They take turns with everything, never leaving Richard out of sight. Never taking bathroom breaks when the other is sleeping or in the cafeteria, never leaving him alone even for a second, making sure one of them is always in the room and aware in case Richard wakes up and tries something.  
  
The more lucid Richard is, the more frustrated he gets. The words '_home_' and '_show_' and '_Morgan_' (presumably the car, not the person) feature prominently in his limited vocabulay and he keeps trying to get out of bed even though he can’t even sit up unaided.  
He constantly rips out his drips, uncoordinated but with violent determination, his hands and arms purple with self-inflicted bruises.  
It's more stressful than James could have ever imagined.  
  
Things aren’t helped by the fact that Jeremy isn’t sleeping.   
Stress, worry and too much caffeine coupled with his long-standing insomnia keep him awake far past anything that could be considered even remotely healthy.  
And over far too long a period of time.   
  
There are dark shadows under his eyes, his face pinched and pale. He is short-tempered, borderline aggressive. With everyone. Everyone but Richard, that is.   
  
James marvels at the infinite patience Jeremy displays with Richard while James himself is, more and more often, at the very end of his rope.   
  
James tries to make Jeremy rest, Tries to make him lie down, intermittently at least, but Jeremy won’t.   
He spends all his time in Richard's bed, sitting up against the headboard, pressed as close to Richard as he can go, laptop balanced on his knees, reading tweets out loud or ranting about the news, no matter if Richard is aware of it or not.  
And James finally realises that Jeremy needs it, the contact. That it’s never been a mindless gesture. Not a means to rile James up. Not a means to exclude James. That Jeremy needs to touch and be touched.   
It’s reassurance. It’s comfort. It’s safety.  
  
And James feels his own walls crumbling with frightening speed.   
Because he’s finally getting it, and starting to need it, to draw from it, himself.   
He wants to give it, and take it, too, but there’s still so much to overcome, so much stigma and conditioning to work around, and crawling into bed with Richard with the easy confidence Jeremy does it, is way beyond him still.  
  
He keeps to his chair instead, fixated on Richard's hand, hanging onto it with a single-mindedness that surprises even him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It has been days, days of no more than a couple of catnaps caught perched on Richard’s bed, but now Jeremy is finally, finally asleep. James is rather proud of himself. He’s made sure to be in charge of the coffee runs today and has brought him caffeine-free all afternoon.   
It's a testimony to his level of tiredness that Jeremy hasn't noticed. He's usually not that easy to fool.  
  
It's almost midnight, the lights are dimmed and James is sitting, as always, in the chair next to the bed, Richard's hand firmly enclosed in both of his.  
Jeremy is snoring lightly on the cot in the corner and the mood can’t be called anything other than peaceful.  
  
For the moment at least.   
Jeremy will be furious when he finds out about the deception. There will be shouting. But he will calm down eventually and see that it was necessary. And James can deal with a bit of shouting. It will be worth it. It will be normalcy.   
  
He rolls his eyes at the ceiling, smiling fondly at the thought alone.   
  
And then, when he looks back down again, Richard’s eyes are open.  
  
He has witnessed this moment several times by now, but it never loses the power, never ceases to dazzle and overwhelm him.  
  
The bright smile appears promptly, a certain sign that Richard is lucid and recognizes him.  
It throws James every time, makes his heart want to beat out of his chest with sheer happiness.  
  
"Hey mate. Alright?" His voice is slightly shaky.   
  
Richard frowns and blinks at their joined hands.  
  
"Yeah, that." James lifts them a little, can’t resist the urge to press a quick kiss to Richard’s knuckles. "Just humour me, please?"   
  
Richard relaxes back into the cushions, smile lingering.   
They do some variation of this song and dance every time Richard wakes up in James' presence.  
James is thrilled by the fact that Richard apparently remembers that hand-holding is not something they usually do.   
And even more so by the level of trust the little exchange demonstrates, every single time. By how Richard accepts James’ reassurances every single time.   
  
But then Richard says "Fag", and tries to get up, and the short moment of calm and peace is shattered.  
  
"Nonono, mate, you can't", James says, whispers rather, because Jeremy hasn't slept in ages and he really needs it.  
  
Richard fidgets. "No. Out”, he says, pulling at the drip in his arm and struggling against James when he tries to stop him.   
  
James, as usual, tries reason first. As usual, it doesn’t work.   
Richard gets more and more agitated, clawing at the needles in his skin, protesting grunts getting louder and more desperate. James sighs and plays his trump card.  
  
"Shhhh..." he says, stilling Richard's hands with both of his own. "See Jeremy over there?"  
  
He waits until he has Richard's attention, then slowly takes away one hand to point at the cot in the corner. Richard focuses on it with some difficulty. Being able to take in anything not in his immediate line of vision is still a very new accomplishment. He tilts his head questioningly, squinting.  
  
"Yeah, that's Jeremy", James murmurs. "He's asleep. He’s feeling poorly. Let's try not to wake him up, ok?"  
  
Richard turns back to him, eyes huge with worry. "'eremy?", he says and he sounds so lost and scared James wants to wrap him up and hold him close forever.  
He brings the hand currently not restraining Richard’s up to cup his cheek instead.  
  
"Don't worry. He's alright. Just very tired. But we’ll be quiet and let him sleep, ok?"  
  
Richard looks doubtful. "'eremy. Hospital."  
  
And that. That right there. That’s a first.   
Richard has registered that they are in a hospital room.   
Without being told.   
And now he's worried because he has made the connection that Jeremy is lying in a bed in a hospital room.  
  
James almost laughs. Because it’s better than to start crying.  
He leans closer and rests his forehead against Richard's.  
  
"Yes, Richard, we are in a hospital. Well spotted, mate, well done. But it's not because of Jeremy, it's because of you, you know? You had an accident. Jeremy and I are just visiting, remember?"  
  
He pulls back to look at Richard who stares at him in confusion.  
  
"You crashed.” James clarifies lowly. "A jet car."  
  
They have been over this a hundred and one times already, just minus the worrying about Jeremy bit.  
  
Richard looks suitably impressed. "Was't good?" he stage-whispers.  
  
And this time, James _does_ laugh, but still for the same reasons as before.  
  
"It was certainly spectacular", he admits, repeatedly pushing Richard's dirty hair out of his face with a gentle hand. "You had us quite worried. But here you are now. On your way back. Right?"  
  
Richard nods earnestly, probably picking up on the intensity in James' voice, before chasing James' hand into his own hair.  
  
"Eeeeew", he says, looking disgustedly at his fingers, sticky from the oily residues that come with going far too long without a wash.  
  
"Yeah, that's the least of our worries.” James is genuinely amused now. "Funny that you would even notice, though. I mean, it doesn’t feel that different from the gunk you usually smear into it, does it?"  
  
James keeps running his hand through it long into the wonderfully enraged look Richard gives him, before he eventually relents with a chuckle. "We can ask the doctor if we're allowed to wash it tomorrow, if you feel up to it."  
  
"Now”, Richard insists.  
  
"No, mate. Now is the middle of the night. And Jeremy is sleeping, remember?"  
  
Richard's eyes dart over again in the direction of Jeremy and the cot, probably already having forgotten about him. He stares at the still form for a moment, blinking, and James isn’t sure if he can actually see Jeremy or just goes with James’ word, but he apparently understands, or is trying to, he is engaging, and that’s more than enough.  
  
When he looks back at James, his eyelids are drooping. He's crashing fast.  
  
"'ermy ok?" he mumbles.  
  
"Yeah, Richard, don't worry. We're good."  
  
Richard's hand goes back into his hair, fiddling with the lank strands. "Ack."  
  
James captures the hand in his own.  
"We'll wash it tomorrow, mate. I'll help you."  
  
Richard peers sleepily up at him.  
"Promise?"  
  
"Yes, Rich. I promise."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In the morning, Richard is far less lucid than he was during his midnight wake-up.  
  
He doesn’t remember a thing, of course he doesn’t, and of course Jeremy doesn't understand at all why it’s suddenly important enough for James to get Richard's hair washed to actually pick a fight with one of the nurses. He grumbles and bitches, but then he jumps to James' aid without hesitation as soon as the doctor gives the green light, getting the stressed-out nurse to bring them the supplies and give them a quick instruction on how it's done before she rushes on.  
  
Richard is unusually pliant and cooperative, undoubtedly supported by James repeatedly grabbing his hand and placing it in his own hair, making grossed-out noises as he does so.  
  
He does try to help at first and knocks half a basin of lukewarm water over James’ lap before Jeremy steps in and makes him hold still.  
  
James carefully washes and rinses Richards’s grown-out hair, strand by strand. And Richard not only holds still but lets himself be lulled into a semi-asleep state, watching with half-lidded eyes and a trust that is humbling.  
  
Jeremy sits on the other side of the bed with a soft towel, making sure no soap gets into Richard's eyes and patting him dry whenever some excess water spills over or James finishes with a strand.  
  
It's the most intimate thing James has ever done for anyone.  
  
Sex with his various ex-girlfriends doesn't even come close.  
  
James could go on like this forever.  
  
And it's in this very moment that he realises, without a doubt, that they will be alright.  
  
Whether Richard fully recovers or not, whether there will be a show or not, it doesn't matter. As long as the three of them are together, they will be alright.  
  
It’s all it takes.  
  
It really is just that simple.


	15. Chapter 15

Again, the mellow mood doesn’t last.   
  
Physical therapy sessions start, with the therapist visiting Richard in his room, trying to get him to work his already somewhat atrophied muscles.   
  
Richard is not happy about any of it and the stronger he gets, the more difficult it becomes to force him, to control him.   
  
“No, Richard”, and “Rich, no”, are fast establishing as James’ default sentences and he hates it from the depths of his heart.   
  
Jeremy, again, falls back more and more, watching from the background, keeping uncharacteristically quiet.   
  
James leaves him be. Jeremy has done enough shouting and angry voices to get Richard to the point where he is now. He deserves a break.   
  
Their little talk at the pond circles around and around in James’ head.   
How could he forget Jeremy’s insecurity, Jeremy’s perception that it was fear of _him_ that made Richard cooperate.   
James feels that he is at a point where he just can’t anymore. That it’s too much for him, simply hurts too much to shout at Richard in his fragile state even if it might be beneficial in the long run.   
  
It is still difficult for James to reconcile this Jeremy with the picture he’s had of him all these years, but he accepts that Jeremy is incapable of dealing with it, incapable of keeping it up, now that Richard is more lucid.   
  
But how James wishes Jeremy could see things like he does. The trust in Richard’s eyes, ultimate and unconditional. It has always been there, hidden behind layers of mockery and antics and more than a little hero-worship.   
And it’s still there now, whenever he’s calm enough to connect, lucid enough to understand. Richard trusts them both, but his trust in Jeremy is ingrained, is instinct, is pure and absolute.  
  
James is unable to word it, unable to point it out to Jeremy. It’s such a huge concept and he is already so drained emotionally that he simply cannot open that particular Pandora’s Box to Jeremy’s inner workings.   
But he sees it, and he knows it, and he is determined to make Jeremy see it.   
One of these days, somehow, he will.  
  
But right now he needs every bit of energy he has to handle the mood swings.   
Because the mood swings are worst.   
  
Richard has always been susceptible to these.   
Oh, they have made many a challenge quite literally _a challenge_.   
James still teeters precariously between horrified and amused just thinking of the Oslo race.  
They had joked about it so many times, on and off the show.   
About the world’s most angry little man.   
  
But before, _before_, and that’s what they are talking in now, in ‘befores’ and ‘afters’, _before_, these outbreaks had usually been directed at Richard himself or the situation at large, and coaxing him out of them had been easy enough to accomplish by way of some teasing, a beer or two, and an extra-large packet of crisps.   
  
Now, though, _after_, he’s hurling insults at doctors, nurses and therapists alike, and sometimes at James and Jeremy, and James almost feels ashamed for his behaviour.   
He needs to remind himself, with ever increasing frequency, of where they’d been only a couple of weeks ago, and that, even if their angry Hamster isn’t making his reappearance in quite the way they would have expected to or wished for, they can’t be picky.   
They _won’t_ be picky.   
  
Luckily, the storms usually blow over as fast as they brew, leaving Richard exhausted and hurting and confused and clingy.   
  
And that’s where Jeremy steps back in.   
He is there for every clingy bit, without fail. Holding Richard through it, reassuring and soothing, cradling his aching head so he doesn’t have to do it himself, murmuring nonsense and gently rocking him until he falls asleep.   
  
James is incredibly glad for the respite, for a chance to rebuild his own equilibrium which is shot to hell as it is, even without the additional strain of close body contact.   
  
He’s gotten better, he’s gotten so much better with physical contact, not only ceasing to shy away from it, but actually drawing from it. But it still throws him somewhat off balance every single time he gives into it.   
He’s working on it.   
  
Things are not made any easier by the fact that the quiet, clingy episodes usually only occur when it’s the three of them alone.   
The nurses look at them sceptically, the doctor clicks his tongue and says “I see”, but James isn’t sure if they quite buy it.   
  
They have once or twice considered specifically calling a nurse in when it happens, but they can’t bring themselves to betray Richard’s trust like that.   
Or maybe they are just too scared that if they did, he would stop even that and just keep on switching between being angry and putting up a show.   
  
Because that is default mode number two. The one he reserves for visitors and, if he’s not in an angry phase, for hospital staff. Perked up, sunny smile, making halting, stumbling conversation and acting as if nothing had happened.   
  
It’s getting harder and harder to explain to everyone that yes, Richard is far from doing ok. He is just very cunning and very clever and, for all they have mockingly claimed the opposite before, a surprisingly good actor.  
  
Richard even manages to hide that his short term memory has all but ceased to exist.   
While James and Jeremy run on a constant loop of 'Yes, you are in a hospital, no, you’re not allowed to smoke, yes, you already had your breakfast, no, you’re still not allowed to smoke, stop, you already put sugar in your tea, no you can’t go home for a while yet...’, Richard very skilfully manages to deflect attention from himself by making his visitors talk about themselves.   
  
The casual visitor is amazed by how well he seems.   
  
And then Mindy flies in and Richard puts his performance up yet another notch, coming very close to Oscar-worthy, completely ignoring the fact that he is in a hospital and pretending to be absolutely fine whenever she is in the room.  
  
But he calls her ‘baby’ and ‘sweetie’ and ‘dear’ and gets agitated when she refuses to kiss him on the mouth. It's awkward for everyone, confusing and draining for Richard. Which is why, after only a couple of days of that whole performance on endless repeat, Mindy herself decides to return home for the time being.   
  
She kisses both James and Richard on the cheek before she leaves, tells Richard she loves him and thanks James for staying with him, and James only just manages to bite back an annoyed comment. Because where else would he be?   
  
Jeremy hugs her silently, tightly and for a very long time, and she returns the embrace without hesitation, standing on tiptoes when it ends and whispering in his ear.   
  
Obviously everything that had happened between them is forgotten and forgiven and, with a little pang, James realizes that Jeremy has known her longer than they’ve known each other and that they have a whole history of their own.   
A whole history Richard is a part of but James isn’t.   
  
Then she’s gone and they return back inside from the parking lot, and Jeremy is resting a hand in the small of James’ back as if to guide him, slightly possessive, and James thinks he should maybe say something, or at least evade it, but he doesn’t.   
  
They are making their own history right here.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
Physical therapy moves to the gym, Richard being picked up and brought there in a wheelchair twice a day.   
  
It’s a fight to make him go every single time, but at least he forgets all about it as soon as he’s back. It’s a blessing, his forgetfulness, in these instances at least, because he doesn’t remember James virtually forcing him into the wheelchair twice a day.   
  
The psychiatrist, who also isn’t making much headway as Richard forgets who she is and what they talked about shortly after each session, says it’s a matter of trying to keep a certain amount of control over his life.   
  
Unfortunately that is extremely counterproductive as they are forced to make him go against his will, which makes him feel even more viciously out of control.   
  
Jeremy and the psychiatrist both suggest leaving him be for the time being, granting him that shred of power over himself and his life, but the doctor refuses.  
There is progress to be made. Skipping PT is simply not an option.   
  
Jeremy starts to disappear more and more often.   
James catches occasional glimpses of what he does instead. A statement on the news, a hefty health and safety file brought back to the room, a tie on the back of a chair hinting at an official meeting.  
  
James doesn’t ask, is too raw to ask, to dive into it, into the politics behind the tragedy, but he surreptitiously watches Jeremy for any signs of break-down.   
And gradually realises that Jeremy is doing the same.  
  
And with this comes another realisation:  
  
Handling Richard in this state may be too much for Jeremy, so he does what needs to be done in the outside world. James on the other hand has never done very well with press and publicity, so he stays and looks after Richard.   
Both jobs are important and they each contribute what they can. And as long as they take care that neither of them drowns, it’s the best they can do.   
  
Splitting tasks according to strength and trying to look out for each other.   
  
But James is less and less able to just brush things off, himself, and he can’t help but wonder how much longer until either of them breaks under the strain of this roller-coaster of emotions.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It takes until almost the end of November, two full months after the accident (which to James feels more like _several years in hell_), for memories to finally start coming back to Richard.  
  
In ever more frequent and brutally merciless nightmares.  
  
Jeremy holds Richard while he cries through the agony this puts his head in, through the shock of the disjointed pictures he can’t make sense of, through the confusion and nauseating weakness.   
James makes tea with his heart breaking, wets a washcloth and runs it over Richard’s hot face, damp and blotchy from sweat and tears.  
  
It is an important part of healing, the doctor assures them. Of Richard’s brain catching up, starting to make sense of the situation.   
  
He is now mostly aware of the fact that he is in a hospital.   
Sometimes of having been in an accident.   
And far too many times he wakes up screaming with dream-memories of fire and jet engines and rolling over.   
Jeremy holds him so tightly, then, James is afraid he might crush him.  
  
Watching Richard go through this stage of recovery is agony.   
And everything is made even worse by the fact that, come morning, Richard is back to being snarky and uncooperative and downright mean to everyone around him.  
The fact that he doesn’t get more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time (neither do James and Jeremy for that matter) makes it particularly draining. All three are cranky and short-tempered and the constant switching between being cried upon and being shouted is seriously taking its toll on both James and Jeremy.   
  
The all-surpassing good news, though, the thing that makes it all worth it, makes it all bearable, is that the doctor is right.   
Richard improves.   
He does start to retain new memories longer and better.   
And he is getting old ones back.   
  
Jeremy has written a couple of columns and articles for various newspapers and James reads them to Richard late at night, when the splitting headaches caused by so many memories coming back in jumbled disorder won’t let him sleep.   
  
Richard is amused by Jeremy’s fierce protectiveness of the show and the crew and by being called a Klingon. He is proud of the speed he’d achieved and of Jeremy defending his driving skills. He laughs out loud, again and again, at Jeremy publicly calling Neil Lyndon a ‘sanctimonious, rent-a-soundbite little turd’ and repeatedly asks for James to re-read the paragraph about Jeremy fighting ‘muddle-headed road safety campaigners’ to save the show… for Richard’s sake.   
  
And, most importantly, he remembers.   
  
Not the accident or anything much before or after that, nothing at all of series 8, not even the Stig crashing the Koenigsegg (and to think of the fact that Jeremy had called _that_ one a ‘big accident’), little of series 7, but he starts to remember day to day stuff and it’s beautiful and series 8 can go hang, they don’t need it.   
  
They don’t need the old memories. They can finally start making new ones.   
James firmly believes that is enough.   
  
Until the day, that is, when Richard, listlessly shoving his pea and potato mash around on his plate with his spoon, turns to James and asks: “You got TG’s sick out of the Kia or we had to pay for it?” and it’s such a complete non-sequitur that James’ brain stalls for a good one minute.   
  
Almost. It had almost been their last big adventure.   
And it hits James with a four-pound hammer, straight over the head, how much will be lost if Richard really doesn’t get all the old stuff back.   
  
Dorset. The caravan.   
James and Jeremy bickering in the front with Richard in the back, like a married couple with a kid on a camping trip.   
U-turning until the police came, letting Richard get kidnapped for tea by the creepy camper-lady.   
A lovely morning of car-spotting, the hilarity of sleeping arrangements in a caravan and then, of course, setting it on fire.   
Richard rescuing the potatoes and the rubber crocodile and TG… oh, god, TG…   
  
“We burnt it a bit, remember? Had to pay for it anyway”, Jeremy says carefully from where he’s perched on the cot in the corner, balancing his own plate on his knees. His voice is very level.   
  
“Only the house-car, no?” Richard’s speech is still slow, halting, but he usually finds the words he needs or manages to work around them.   
  
“Well, it did spread a bit. The _caravan_ burned down and the Kia got singed at the edges”, Jeremy says, discreetly emphasising the word Richard is missing. But carefully waiting. Not prompting. Waiting for how much more there might be.   
  
Richard nods.   
  
“TG ok?” he asks after a bit and James honestly doesn’t have an answer.   
He knows Andy took care of it, of her, but he has never spared her a second thought.   
  
“Kiff has her, she’s fine”, Jeremy says before James can start to panic and James honestly hadn’t even known. Richard smiles. A small one, wistful.  
  
Jeremy seems to have noticed it, too. “Shall we ask the doctor if he can bring her around? Maybe we can meet her outside in the park? Walk her around the pond, what do you think?”  
  
“Can’t walk”, Richard says, losing the smile immediately, his voice sullen, tilting towards upset.   
  
“Oh, but the doc says you’re doing fine”, James assures him. “Standing up alright, walking a couple of steps… just a few more sessions and you’ll be there. We can take the chair…”   
  
Richard shakes his head vigorously and James is afraid he’s maybe fucked it all up again, sending Richard into another rage against the wheelchair.   
  
But Jeremy immediately diffuses. And what has the world come to that Jeremy Clarkson is the one to diffuse?   
  
“How about that”, Jeremy asks, getting up and coming over to sit on the bed next to Richard. “I’ll let the therapist know that this is the goal we’re working towards. We'll make him put everything else on hold but that. Weekend after next, we’ll walk TG around that pond, you and me and James and no chair, is that a deal?”   
  
Richard’s face lights up with a cautious smile. “Yeah? You think?”  
  
Jeremy slaps his thigh. “Yes, I think. That would be brilliant, that’s what I think. I’d love that. But you’ve got to make an effort. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to work if you don’t make an effort, you know that, right?”  
  
Richards nods.   
  
“That a deal?” Jeremy asks and holds out his hand.   
  
It takes a moment for Richard to get coordinated enough to put his spoon down and reach out to meet Jeremy’s hand halfway.   
  
But then he makes contact and they both turn to James with the proudest matching grins he’s ever seen. And James can’t keep the laugh from escaping.   
Doesn’t want to keep the laugh from escaping.   
The loud one, the one they say makes him sound like a donkey.  
  
He reaches over and puts his own hand on top of their joined ones.   
  
“Deal!”  
  
Unisono. 


	16. Chapter 16

Things get better from there.  
At least when it comes to physical therapy.  
  
James and Jeremy have to remind Richard of their deal almost every day, but he usually remembers with minimal prompting and willingly, sometimes even eagerly, lets the nurse take him to his PT appointment.  
  
The same doesn't quite go for his other therapy sessions but, well. Small victories.  
  
Jeremy phones Kiff and fortunately he can make it down to Leeds on Saturday after next.  
To be fair, he sounds like he would have dropped everything at a lesser request, but it's not something they’ll ever take for granted, the crew’s dedication, their unconditional support.  
  
They do talk with the physical therapist about the reality of their goal because Jeremy was certainly going out on a limb with his promise, there. Luckily the therapist is cautiously optimistic. The pond is small, and with James and Jeremy to hold onto on either side and no time limit whatsoever, Richard should be able to make it.  
  
The biggest issue still is his coordination.  
His brain is struggling to send the correct signals to the correct muscles, making him jerky and slow, wobbly and very unsteady on his feet, but James is reasonably sure that he and Jeremy can compensate.  
  
He can’t help being a little worried, though, and he wonders if Jeremy is, too.  
If he is, he hides it well behind a front of optimism and anticipation.  
  
Richard himself is incredibly excited.  
  
They haven't been outside with him much, mainly due to Richard's loathing of the wheelchair and general refusal to use it if he can help it.  
Fear of paparazzi or misguided fans is undeniably another aspect.  
  
James reminds Richard time and again that he definitely _will_ have to use the wheelchair to get out of the hospital and into the park, that there is no way around it. Hoping to pre-empt any major drama on the day.  
  
Richard agrees readily enough, remembers about it when asked, and James and Jeremy both wonder why they haven't thought of bringing TG into this sooner.  
  
Saturday rolls around and James gets Richard warmly dressed and into the chair with minimal fuss.  
  
Actually, the ‘warmly dressed’ part is the biggest challenge.  
Even though a lot of Richard’s things have migrated from his out-of-town cottage to his hospital room by way of crewmembers stopping by, no one has thought of a warm jacket.  
So James bundles him into one of his own, far too big for Richard even without the weight-loss, and Jeremy takes the piss like there is no tomorrow while Richard is trying to come up with witty comebacks.  
And he does, he truly does. He delivers a couple of brilliant one-liners out of nowhere with Jeremy carefully giving him plenty of space and time to do so, startling them into laughter and surreptitiously wiped-away tears.  
When they finally set off, all three of them are giddy with excitement and laughing loudly and it almost feels like old times.  
  
Andy, genius that he is, has managed to close off most of the area behind the hospital. Because a picture of Jeremy pushing Richard in a wheelchair in the Sunday Express is pretty much the last thing they need.  
  
They go out the back which is easier to control for Andy and the security guys, and circle around to the little park.  
  
Kiff is already there, TG yelping and straining against the leash wrapped around his hook-hand as soon as she catches a whiff of them.  
  
"TeeGee", Richard whispers, and it's so awed, so revered, James' heart catches in his throat and his step falters.  
  
Kiff loosens the leash a little when they draw near and James catches up to make sure TG doesn't topple over Richard and the chair in her enthusiasm.  
  
Richard and Kiff talk a little. Richard seems to know who Kiff is, but it’s always hard to tell. TG, momentarily ignored by Richard, spares Jeremy and James each a couple of seconds to let them scratch her between the ears. She immediately latches back onto Richard, then, almost climbing up and into his lap.  
  
Richard's smile is so pure and happy it lights up a whole British November.  
  
Kiff hands the leash over to James, slaps Jeremy's shoulder, winks at Richard and goes in search of coffee.  
  
Because this moment is just for the three of them and, contrary to James, Jeremy isn't shy about voicing such things. And he even is capable of being polite about it, too, if he chooses to be.  
  
Jeremy tries to push Richard's chair closer to the pond, but Richard is eager to get out of it, fidgety, and TG getting under feet and wheels alike isn't helping, so they decide to give up and just walk the last couple of yards in addition to the planned loop around the pond.  
  
They get Richard up on wobbly legs and TG somehow seems to understand that she needs to be careful now, pressing up close but no longer jumping him, keeping mostly out of the way.  
  
Richard wants to take the leash and they don't have the heart to deny him, even though he would be nowhere near strong enough to hold her if she made a sudden move.  
  
They set off slowly, very slowly, one on either side, Richard taking one careful step after the other and TG following along, not tugging, not pulling, just trotting along, being the amazing little mutt she's always been.  
  
All goes well at first. Richard is shuffling along, slightly unsteady, but concentrated and determined. He lets James and Jeremy hover by his elbows without fuss, even participates in some banter at first, before falling silent and letting them take care of conversation.  
But he’s still smiling along, laughing in all the right places, stopping now and again to pet TG.  
  
About three quarters in, though, he starts to falter.  
The smile grows strained, then morphs into a tightly clenched grimace.  
He is visibly exhausted, dragging his right leg and getting more and more unsure of his footing on the rough surface.  
  
James tucks himself more firmly against Richard's side, taking TG’s leash out of his hand, expecting protest which doesn’t come, and they are now stopping every five steps or so, Richard visibly dizzy and shaking with the exertion.  
  
His panting and grunting gets more pronounced with every yard and James and Jeremy exchange a helpless look over his head. When they pause again after only three steps, Richard swaying, Jeremy extracts himself to go get the chair.  
  
But Richard has apparently decided that this is his own personal Waterloo and that he might be going down, but he's going down with a fight.  
  
It all gets a bit out of hand after that.  
  
There is sniping and shouting on three sides, some whining and barking from TG because she never liked it when they went after each other in earnest, and Richard pushing on regardless, fast and careless, faster even than he did in the very beginning when he was rested and fresh.  
  
And then he just crumples.  
  
With no prior warning he just passes out mid-sentence and Jeremy, displaying a speed and agility completely at odds with his build, only just manages to keep him from hitting his head.  
Again.  
  
There is a beat of indecision after that, Jeremy stunned into silence, one hand under Richard’s head, the other tight around his elbow, big eyes on James, TG bobbing around them, whining and licking Richard's face and James just standing there, staring.  
  
But then he remembers to panic and runs all the way back, crashing through the hospital doors and yelling for a doctor.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There is a series of tests that Richard very sullenly endures, but he is obviously much too exhausted to put up any more of a fight.  
  
Finally, late in the afternoon, there is the all-clear.  
It was a combination of the unusual activity, exhaustion, and going into a rage that had caused his brain to very literally short-circuit.  
No harm done, thanks to Jeremy and the fact that he didn't let him hit his head again.  
  
For Richard, though, it seems to signify an unacceptable setback.  
He is grumpy and angry at himself and the world at large and everyone in it.  
  
And when the doctor won't allow TG in to say goodbye, and when Richard has to admit that he quite clearly is in no state to go outside to do so himself, he turns away from everyone and cries himself to sleep.  
  
Not even Jeremy is allowed close.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richard stays angry and withdrawn all Sunday. He refuses anything and everything James and Jeremy suggest, is hardly even talking.  
Or, if he is, whatever he says is deliberately hurtful.  
  
James feels like he did something wrong.  
No, that's not quite right... he _knows_ he did something wrong. Horribly wrong.  
  
It was a stupid idea. Completely rubbish.  
He should have stopped Jeremy from even making the suggestion.  
He should have insisted on the wheelchair at least.  
They should not have brought TG into this for a while yet.  
He should have known better.  
He's failed. He’s supposed to be the sensible one. The cautious one. Keeping the other two in line. Making sure their crazy ideas don’t backfire.  
Well, it’s Andy’s job, first and foremost. But even Andy only gets so far. Besides, Andy isn’t here.  
It should have been James.  
  
The mood is strained and explosive.  
James feels like he’s walking on eggshells, wavering between guilty, and desperate, and sad.  
Jeremy is watching him out of the corner of his eye, tense and questioning.  
James ignores him.  
  
He’s trying hard to get back into that particular mind-set which has carried him through all his life, tries to trample down on his feelings, shut them off, shut himself off. But he’s failing.  
He’s lost it.  
Somewhere on this long, rocky road, sometime between September 20th and today he has lost it, lost the ability to turn off his emotions and lock them away and now it turns out his father was right after all.  
  
He is nothing but hurting.  
  
Jeremy is quiet and patient, unconfrontational to the extreme.  
  
James is distantly aware that Jeremy is taking over from him, stepping in, stepping up, giving James the space to detach himself somewhat. It almost makes things worse, almost makes James want to cry from the tightness in his chest.  
  
There are touches, too.  
A slap to a shoulder, a hand on an elbow, fingers lingering on a wrist, the back of a hand. And the realization that he is leaning into them, grateful and needy, instead of flinching away, almost breaks him.  
  
Their smoking habit has decreased significantly, what with every time they try to sneak out or come back reeking of smoke reminding Richard of the fact that he is actually quite a heavy smoker himself, and wanting to go with them.  
But today Richard doesn't even seem to notice when James slips away for the first time, nor the second, and then the third Jeremy follows and they spend most of the afternoon chain-smoking in the backyard, not talking, sharing lighters and cigarettes in silent support, inhaling and exhaling in unison.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richard refuses to eat and Jeremy just sighs and clears his plate away and James knows he should say something, should insist, because Richard is still far too thin, far too fragile, skin translucent and muscles soft.  
  
But the guilt eats at him, sapping his strength. And when Richard snaps at him just for offering to get a cup of tea, the good one from down the cafeteria instead of the oversteeped brew they hand out at the nurses’ station, and Jeremy looks at him with his lower lip caught between his teeth as if he needs to physically restrain himself from jumping in, he just gets up, grabs his jacket off the hook by the door, and leaves.  
  
His feet carry him to the little park behind the hospital on their own accord, but when he gets to the pond it's like a physical blow to the gut, bile rising in his throat and he turns on his heel and briskly walks in the opposite direction.  
  
He finds a bit of a secluded spot, a bleak strip of grass squashed in between tarmac and concrete, with a sad excuse for a tree drooping naked branches over a disintegrating bench. He slumps down on it. It's cold and damp but the fresh air does him good, calms him somewhat.  
  
He checks his pockets but already knows he’s out of cigarettes.  
Comes across his mobile phone, instead, which is a pleasant surprise.  
  
He calls his neighbour first, to check on Fusker. The little moggie is alright, having made friends with the lady's grandchildren, and is certainly being spoiled rotten.  
It makes James feel a lot better.  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, shivering in the cold but knowing he can’t go back yet, he calls Andy. And gets lucky. Andy is just driving back up from a weekend spent with his own family, is on the M1 just before Leeds and he doesn’t ask questions, instantly suggests meeting at the bar of his hotel.  
  
James turns off his mobile without reading the text from Jeremy that has come through in the meantime, and goes to meet Andy.  
  
And if they talk about anything but Richard, that's nothing to feel guilty about.  
And if they get a bit drunk to the gills, who's to blame them?  
And if James feels guilty about leaving Jeremy alone with Richard all evening, well, that is easily fixed with a couple more beers chased down with some G&Ts.  
  
James, ever the sensible one, slides off his barstool exactly one beer before that motion would entirely cease to be possible.  
Andy follows with some difficulty and graciously offers half of his queen size hotel bed.  
  
And it’s tempting. Oh it is. James hasn't slept in a real bed for weeks. Months, that is.  
It would save him the walk back to the hospital through the drizzle. It would save him from looking Jeremy in the eyes and seeing the pity, it would save him from having to look at Richard and seeing his failure in keeping him safe.  
  
But it would be a step too far.  
  
Not only the sharing a narrow bed with Andy, but especially the sense of betrayal on Jeremy's behalf.  
And Richard's. Because even though he doesn't want to acknowledge it at the moment, Richard needs James.  
So does Jeremy.  
They both do.  
  
And that is a staggering thought, all by itself.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James stumbles back into Richard's room late, chilled to the bone and slightly damp.  
  
Jeremy is still up. He’s sitting in one of the chairs, for once a considerable distance away from Richard’s bed, hunched over in a way that must be agony on his back, hands clasped, watching him sleep.  
  
He startles slightly at James' less than quiet entrance, straightening with a wince. One look at James, and Jeremy is on his feet, grabbing him under the armpit with a steadying hand and steering him over to the cot in the corner.  
James gratefully sinks down on it with minimal prompting.  
  
He goes a bit dizzy from the sudden change in position and before he knows it, there is a glass of water in his hand and Jeremy is kneeling by his feet, removing his soggy sneakers.  
  
The glass is taken away momentarily before the jacket goes, too. And then there’s a towel in his hair, scrubbing over his head, and James sways with the motion.  
  
"I would have joined you, you know", Jeremy says gruffly, taking the towel away and giving the glass back, tipping it in the general direction of James' mouth. "There is no need to get hammered alone. Ever."  
  
"Andy", James slurs between careful sips, distantly puzzled by the fact that he's getting undressed by Jeremy Clarkson.  
He is aware that something is not quite right with that picture, but he is too sloshed to bother figuring it out.  
  
Jeremy's fingers stop momentarily in their efforts to remove James's belt. Jumper and socks have somehow already gone.  
He looks at James, patiently, motionless, until James manages to focus.  
  
"Good", he says, “I don’t want you to do that alone. Understood?”  
  
He tugs the belt fully out of the loops. Then: "You want to stand up and get rid of your jeans or do you plan to sleep in them?"  
  
James' addled brain distantly reminds him that getting his trousers removed by his best friend is probably not a thing too much good could come out of.  
  
"'m good" he mumbles, decidedly wobbly.  
  
Jeremy smiles and it's more fond than exasperated.  
  
He takes the empty glass from James' hand and ducks into the bathroom cubicle. James tilts forward with the vague intention of following, the how and why unclear, but Jeremy is back almost instantly and has a hand on his shoulder before he can either topple over all the way or right himself.  
The refilled glass gets placed within easy reach.  
  
"Well come on then, you muppet", he says and James realises he hasn't moved from his precarious lean, is practically face-planted into Jeremy’s chest now.  
  
“Mmmm”, he says, astonishingly eloquent, and considers staying right where he is.  
  
But Jeremy chuckles and pushes him upright.  
He folds the blanket down, helps James get his legs up and then tucks him in. Genuinely tucks him in. Plucks at the pillow to get it just right, pulls the blanket up, smooths it down.  
  
James protests a little because he just about remembers that Jeremy has a bad back and that is why it’s usually James who sleeps on the floor if they sleep at the same time, but Jeremy soothes him with “don't be a pillock” and ‘shhhh’-noises equally and eventually James relents, getting comfortable and closing his eyes.  
  
Which does not make the room stop spinning.  
  
Jeremy hovers over him for a bit, James can feel him there, can hear his breathing.  
And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, there is a hand in his hair, repeatedly brushing strands back from his forehead before coming to rest in the curls just over his right ear, lightly scratching.  
James keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even and doesn’t give away how much he is enjoying it.  
  
"It's gonna be ok, May", Jeremy murmurs.  
  
A tentative stroke. Another.  
Little petting motions running into each other.  
  
"I promise. I promise, James. We're going to be alright."  
  
And James believes him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things always get worse before they get better.

In the morning, nothing is better.  
  
And James has a headache.  
  
Richard flies into his first rage of the day about breakfast being scrambled eggs on toast instead of beans on toast (never mind that he had ordered scrambled eggs the night before) and refuses to touch anything, even the toast.  
  
Jeremy ignores him and pointedly looks at James, urging him to do the same.  
  
James bites his tongue and says nothing, but he resolves to speak to the doctor later.  
Richard needs the fuel, he looks like the slightest gust of wind would knock him over, smaller and more delicate than ever before.  
  
Then, for no discernable reason whatsoever, Richard insists on drinking his Earl Grey from a porcelain cup, complete with saucer, instead of the sturdy hamster-themed mug Porter got him.  
  
Predictably, most of the tea ends up on his t-shirt, which has him so agitated his right arm and leg start shaking uncontrollably.  
Which means that it’s now either admitting to his weakness or keeping on a damp, stained shirt.  
This dilemma leads to more snapping and a lot more sulking, until he eventually lets James help him out of it and pull on a fresh one.  
  
And then, right in the aftermath of that particular drama, the nurse brings in the wheelchair to take him to PT.  
  
Jeremy has showered and is towelling his hair, clad in an undershirt and dark suit pants instead of his customary jeans, a sure sign that he is getting ready for a meeting. And an important one at that.  
  
So it’s up to James to deal with the second rage of the day, too.  
  
Which, to be honest, is only fair after him leaving Jeremy alone with Richard for so long, yesterday.  
  
“No fucking wheelchair, go away”, Richard snarls.  
He has done this every morning but for the last two weeks with the TG-incentive.  
And today it’s especially ridiculous because his leg is still twitching erratically and he is so keyed-up he’s barely in control of any of his muscles.  
  
“Richard”, James admonishes, quietly pleading.  
  
The nurse is used to the display and smiles sweetly. “It’s regulation, Mr Hammond. Just for the transfer. You do remember that, don’t you?”  
  
And, without much warning, Richard flies completely off the handle.  
  
“Fuck off! Fuck regulations, fuck wheelchairs, fuck you!” he shouts, barely even slurring his words and it would be counted fantastic progress if it were happening under any other circumstances. “Fuck this place, I’m sick of it! What is your fucking problem, I’m fine, I want to go home! Why don’t you just let me go home??”  
  
James winces, as much from the words themselves as from the volume, which does the most unpleasant things to his headache.  
  
He looks at Jeremy, who’s shaving in front of the small mirror on the far wall, observing the scene in the reflection but not interfering.  
  
Letting James deal with Richard's moods has proved relatively successful so far, especially if they are directed towards the staff. The steady and reasonable approach usually calms him down relatively quickly or at least redirects his frustration. But this is the first time he has been outright abusive and James isn’t quite sure how to deal with it. He sighs and gives the nurse an apologetic look.  
  
Richard sits on the edge of his bed, half-drunk tea, now in a mug, in both hands, trying to keep it steady. His hands are rattling though and the tea is dangerously close to sloshing over.  
  
James pulls up a chair, takes the mug out of his hands and puts it safely on the bedside table.  
  
“That was out of line, Richard”, he says calmly, evenly. “We’ve been over this. You _know_ why you’re here, mate, you _know_…”  
  
“And fuck you, too, James”, Richard shouts right over him, trying to get his tea back and knocking it off the table. James watches the mug as it falls to the floor and breaks into three pieces. They are almost even. “Don’t treat me like a child! I am not a child! This is sick, you are sick, you keep me locked up in here, but not anymore!”  
  
The nurse looks genuinely frightened now.  
  
James is stunned into silence, mouth open and ready for a reply, but for the life of him he can’t come up with anything while Richard keeps on hurling insults at the top of his voice until Jeremy’s booming “STOP!!” freezes them all.  
  
Jeremy is facing them, breathing hard, razor held high and there’s foam still on his face, but he has never looked more imposing.  
  
Richard falls silent mid-tirade and just stares at him.  
  
“If you would wait outside, please, Cathy”, Jeremy says with deadly calm. “Richard will be right there.”  
  
She nods and gratefully flees the room, pushing the wheelchair in front of her.  
  
Jeremy waits until the door is firmly closed, then promptly turns on Richard.  
  
“Let’s make one thing very, very clear, Rich. Because this is rule number one. So listen to me. Are you listening? Okay then. _I will not have you shouting at James_.” He’s started out dangerously quiet, but the volume is rising. “I don’t want you shouting at nurses, I don’t want you shouting at doctors, I don’t like you shouting at me but _I will not have you shouting at James._” He is at the shouting-stage himself, now.  
  
James has gotten up from his chair, wide-eyed, hands raised placatingly. “Whoa Jez. Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay.”  
  
Jeremy turns to him, eyes blazing. “No, James, it’s not. You’re not. I watched you fucking snap last night and it was not funny. If he would just care to take one good look at you, he would see you’ve been through hell and back. You've hardly slept through a full eight hours since this whole mess started, you haven't seen a proper bed in all this time, hardly had any fresh air let alone a good meal. Your cat is home alone, your fucking toy trains and engines and your Rolls haven't seen you in two months, you’ve lived in this fucking hamster cage all this time, you’ve given up everything to be here for him and for that, for that if for nothing else, _for that_ at the very least, _he will not shout at you_.” He points the razor at Richard with a fiery glare. “I simply won’t have it. Is that clear?”  
  
Richard stares at him, stunned into utter silence.  
  
Not that James is much better off. He needs three tries for an attempt at de-escalation, the first two fail tragically at producing any kind of sound at all.  
  
“It’s alright Jez, I’m good. It's not as if it’s any easier for you. "  
  
“Oh, but it is”, Jeremy growls, “Thanks to your constant bullying, I’ve been sleeping on that bed over there most nights. I’ve been out with Andy, I've been working, I’ve been back to London, even slept in my own bed a couple of times.” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “It’s completely beside the point anyway, James. The point is this.”  
  
He turns to Richard again, still steely-eyed, waiting until Richard properly looks at him.  
  
“The point is, we love you, Rich. Beyond words. And we couldn’t be more grateful that you’re still here. You have no fucking idea how much. None. Not the slightest. But there are still limits. And the limits begin with James. Understood?”  
  
Richard nods jerkily.  
  
“It’s alright, I really don’t mind”, James says faintly, as much to Richard as to Jeremy.  
  
“I don’t care if you mind or not, James. _I_ mind. And that’s that.” He turns away, back to the mirror, finally putting the razor down. “Now get your fucking shit together, Hammond, and go to PT or we’ll never get out of here. None of us.”  
  
He scrubs a towel over the remaining foam on his half-shaved face, grabs his dress shirt and suit jacket in one hand, his shoes in the other, and is gone before either of them can think of anything to say.  
  
Or even unfreeze, for that matter.  
  
James looks at the closed door for a few seconds, chewing on his bottom lip. He notices he’s holding his breath and very consciously exhales and inhales before he turns back to Richard.  
  
“Ready to go, then?” he asks, as cheerful as he can manage.  
  
Richards shrugs meekly.  
  
“Do you want me to call Cathy in with the wheelchair or do you want to try and walk out to her on your own two legs?”  
  
A long pause.  
  
Then: “If you don’t mind helping, I want to walk.” It’s barely audible.  
  
James has to look away and blink rapidly a couple of times. “Of course I don’t mind helping, you muppet.” He sighs, slinging one of Richard’s arms over his own shoulders and getting a good grip around his waist. “Always. All you need to do is ask. Never forget that.”  
  
Together they slowly make their way across the room and out the door.  
  
And if Richard is leaning onto him quite heavily, James wouldn’t know if that is because of the still-present tremors in his leg or because of the shock of that little altercation.  


* * *

  
  
  
The rest of the day is awkward to the extreme.  
  
Richard is subdued and thoughtful, has apologized to the nurses and is clearly making an effort to be extra nice to James.  
  
James isn't quite sure how to deal with this new kind of dynamics. Makes it all even more awkward by trying to be cheerful and acting as if nothing had happened.  
  
They dance around each other all day, saying “please” and “thank you” and “would you mind” and even though it feels wrong, is not _them_, it's still a welcome breather for James.  
  
Richard submits wordlessly to the doctor's daily prodding and poking, then eats his lunch without fuss, meets with his speech therapist, goes for the second PT session of the day and eats his dinner. All without a single word of protest.  
  
They play a couple of rounds of cards afterwards, a very easy game of quartets with a car-themed set which Andy had brought in a couple of weeks ago.  
It's doing a lot for jogging Richard's memory, his capacity for speech and recognition and, last but not least, his fine motor skills.  
  
They have played a few times before at the doctor's suggestion, but always on James’ insistence, always with Richard a very reluctant participant.  
  
This time, however, the suggestion comes from him.  
  
James is amazed at the progress he makes on a daily basis with his speech as it is, but it almost seems like the shouting today has been a catalyst, has loosened another knot in his brain.  
He is talking, slow still, but precise and better than ever.  
  
As is usual with activities that challenge his damaged brain, though, Richard tires quickly and soon James helps him with his routine and Richard settles in for the night.  
  
James stands next to the bed, undecided. The hand-holding is a thing of the past, has been for a while, but usually James would pull up a chair now, read to him, or just sit and talk bollocks until he falls asleep.  
Richard is mellow, the atmosphere peaceful, but James isn’t sure how long it will last. What might trigger the next episode. A random word, a touch, anything. He is afraid of it, but waiting, trying to be prepared.  
  
Richard pats the mattress.  
  
Feeling rather out of his depth, James sits.  
  
Richard reaches over, grabs the sleeve of James’ shirt and twists it around his fingers, not saying anything for a long time, just kneading the fabric, holding James in place.  
  
His eyelids are already drooping when he finally speaks, fingers flexing in the cloth of James’ sleeve: "Maybe tomorrow we can start building the Spider? Together?"  
  
James looks over at the Lego box he'd purchased online in what he’d thought was a fit of genius, because visual thinking, and fine motor skills, and cars, but which hasn't met with much enthusiasm so far. Which is the understatement of the century.  
They haven’t insisted, because the doctor is slightly sceptical if Richard is already up to the task and the last thing they want to do is discourage him.  
  
"Only when you're ready, Rich", he says. “And only if you want to. Don’t think you have to do anything for my sake.”  
  
Richard's fingers twist tighter. "I want to", he whispers. “Don’t know if I can. But I want to try. With you. If you still want.”  
  
James barks out a laugh that is almost, almost followed by a couple of tears. He leans in and rests their foreheads together. Cups Richard’s face with his free hand.  
It’s probably the most intimate moment they have ever shared.  
James tramples down on the rising panic and sinks into it. And it’s easy.  
So much easier than it used to be.  
  
"Of course I want. Gosh, Rich, I’ll always want. I’m always here for you.” He has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. "We’re good. We're alright, you and I."  
  
Richard inhales deeply, and James tries to match his own rather ragged breathing to the rhythm he sets.  
Wonders if it’s intentional.  
  
"Sure?" Richard whispers.  
  
"Yeah mate. Very sure. It’s alright. We’re good."  
  
Richard takes another deep breath. "I want, James. I want you to help me."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with an emotional breakdown here, complete with all the trimmings. Angst, anxiety, tears, comfort. And a happy ending.

Jeremy doesn't come back until very late that night.  
  
James has more than half expected him to repeat his own performance from yesterday, but Jeremy, surprisingly, while enveloped in a cloud of stale smoke, is sober when he returns.  
  
And someday in the past two months they have apparently developed a telepathic bond because Jeremy gives James a sheepish look, shrugs one shoulder and says: "If I'd started, I wouldn't have stopped."  
  
James nods sympathetically from where he sits against the footboard of Richard's bed, legs stretched out in front of him.  
  
He’d ended up reading to Richard after all. And after he'd fallen asleep (which admittedly hadn’t taken very long) James had only gotten up to use the bathroom and dim the lights before kind of ending up back on the bed, if on the opposite side.  
  
He carefully folds his AutoCar magazine and puts it away while Jeremy hangs up his suit jacket and pulls off his shoes. He switches the overhead lamps off as he goes, the only remaining light now coming from the little bedside lamp that has made the move with James and which should now be called a footside lamp.  
  
“Better?” James asks and Jeremy snorts derisively, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to James’ knees. James shifts a bit to the side to give him space.  
  
Jeremy is silent for far too long but James waits him out. Knows something’s coming.  
  
“Was I too harsh?” Jeremy finally asks, almost inaudibly.  
  
And this so isn’t what James would have expected. Not that he actually has expected anything in particular, but if he had, it would have been Jeremy still being angry, or drinking himself into a stupor, or acting as if nothing had happened, or making plans for how to proceed. Not this. Not this forlorn, guilty, anxious question. He’s at a complete loss for a second.  
  
“I was”, Jeremy sounds defeated, completely misinterpreting James’ silence. He runs a hand over his face and up into his hair, leaving it dishevelled and sticking out every which way, then back down over his face again, roughly, before squeezing the bridge of his nose. He inhales deeply. A shuddery, shaky breath.  
  
And oh. Of course. This is what this is about.  
James takes a deep breath himself, then exhales slowly, buying himself time, recognising the need to tread carefully.  
  
He gently nudges Jeremy’s thigh with his foot until Jeremy drops his hand and turns slightly sideways. Still not quite looking at James, but at least turning in his direction.  
  
James shakes his head. “See, Jez, while I don't like you shouting at him any more than you like him shouting at me…” His lip curls into a wry smile at that, not that Jeremy would see, staring blankly at nothing as he is. “What I’m saying is, it was probably for the best. It was all getting a bit out of hand, to be honest. I think it helped. He was very cooperative and nice to everyone today.”  
  
“I didn’t want to shout at him." The guilt is palpable.  
  
“I know”, James says, but it’s lost.  
  
“It's not his fault. They... they've warned us about personality changes, I know that. And it’s nothing, it’s nothing compared to the alternative, how can I not be grateful?"  
  
James shakes his head more forcefully, but Jeremy is on a roll.  
  
"It’s just his brain playing tricks on him. I know that. Rationally, I know it. And I try to keep it in mind. Always. It’s nothing. We might have lost him and this is nothing. But when he shouted at you like that, like he meant it, like he really meant it, something just… I don’t even know. _Snapped_.”  
  
James sits up straight and scoots a little closer so he can reach and squeeze a hunched shoulder. “You've been beating yourself up over this all day, haven't you?”  
  
And bloody hell, he can see it, Jeremy’s day. Meetings in high places, business lunch, maybe a TV-appearance or two, all the while putting up a front, being cool and professional through the storm raging inside of him, not letting on. The way it’s always been. Jeremy Clarkson alone against the rest of the world.  
  
It breaks James’ heart.  
  
“This is not a personality change, Jezza. He's just frustrated and he’s kind of missing the bigger picture. It's alright, believe me.” He squeezes the tense muscles under his fingers. “Jez. Come on, mate.” Gives the shoulder a shake and leaves his hand where it is, gently kneading.  
  
Will there ever be a respite? James feels like he's putting out fires left and right. If the crisis is not with Richard, it's with Jeremy. And when has _he_ become the one holding their little threesome together?  
  
He immediately stomps down on that thought, because it’s not fair. Jeremy has carried far more than his share of the burden. It's just that James feels more and more like they are falling apart, breaking away from him somehow, and he is desperately trying to hold onto each of them on either side to keep them all together.  
  
But they are going to be alright. Ultimately, they are going to be alright. Jeremy has promised James and James has promised Richard. This is just another bridge to cross on the way to getting there.  
  
"Thanks for standing up for me, by the way.” James says, trying to lighten the mood. “Not that it was strictly necessary, but… Well, good intentions and all that, I guess."  
  
Jeremy ignores him completely and drops his head into his hands. His breathing sounds choked and heavy and James feels dread pool low in his gut.  
  
He doesn’t know if he is up for this.  
He doesn’t know if he can deal with this tonight.  
  
But they have been through worse.  
Nothing can ever be as bad as the night when Richard bled into his own brain, can it?  
And James is now infinitely better equipped to deal with things than he was back then, and even then, they somehow made it through.  
He’ll manage.  
  
Still, seeing strong, bold Jeremy on the verge of breaking down, desperate and scared and hurting, is sheer torture and sends James into a midsized panic every time.  
  
“What if it’s not, though?” Jeremy rasps. “What if I’ve made it worse? Did you see how he looked at me? He was so shocked. He was _scared_. Of me. _I_ scared him. Again. And I… What if he never trusts me again? What if I lose him for good now? What if...”  
  
“Jez.”  
  
Jeremy and James both jump at the sleepy voice, startled. Then James snorts, half laugh, half disbelief.  
  
They’ve got to keep in mind that they are not alone anymore.  
  
Richard is no longer in a coma.  
He is no longer confused and exhausted and out of it.  
He is lucid and aware and able to wake up in the middle of the night and make sense of a situation.  
  
Even if that's a first.  
And a first it is. Bloody Nora.  
  
There are so many firsts these days. Jeremy is right, they have no reason at all to be frustrated with his progress.  
No reason at all.  
  
There’s a rustle of bed sheets as Richard sits up. Then, slightly awkwardly because his coordination is even further off when not fully awake, he shuffles up towards them on his knees.  
  
He looks at James, gaze troubled in the dim light, obviously seeking reassurance, but James can only shrug at him helplessly, unsure of what to say or do himself.  
  
Richard hesitates for a second, glancing back and forth between them, then changes direction and shuffles up to Jeremy.  
  
James takes his hand out of the way, the one that’s been on Jeremy’s shoulder all this time, the one that has felt the shudders increase in time with Richard’s growing proximity, and Richard replaces it with his own, inching closer until he is pressed right up against Jeremy’s back, hugging him tightly from behind.  
  
“’m sorry, Jezza.”  
  
Jeremy has gone rigid and completely still, face buried in his hands, and James is very sure he has stopped breathing.  
  
Which makes him realise, with a bit of a start, that he himself isn't breathing, either.  
  
He inhales sharply at the infinitely wondrous sight of Richard's skinny frame draped all over Jeremy's broad back, face buried in Jeremy's hair right next to the balding spot. Just holding on and murmuring ‘sorry’ after ‘sorry’ into Jeremy’s hair.  
  
It takes Jeremy an inordinately long time to get over the shock of the sudden change in dynamics. But then, abruptly, all tension goes out of him on the rush of a chocked-off sob. Like a puppet with its strings cut he is suddenly only held upright by Richard's arms around him and that is not enough by a long shot.  
  
James reaches out, afraid they will both topple over off the bed, but Jeremy catches himself just in time, righting himself and leaning back into Richard a bit, keeping them both in a precarious balance on the edge.  
  
James’s hand is forgotten, staying outstretched but not making contact, as he looks on in complete and utter awe at how, for the first time in this horrible ordeal, Richard takes over.  
  
_Richard takes over_.  
  
Jeremy is shaking his head, tremors running through him, rocking his whole body. It takes him a try, or two, or three, but he finally manages to find his voice, or at least a semblance of it.  
  
"Bloody hell, Richard. There’s nothing you need to be sorry for. Nothing. It’s me, I'm an idiot, a bloody stupid one, and I'm so sorry for shouting..."  
  
“I wouldn't usually argue", Richard enunciates carefully. Slow and a bit sluggish but clear and distinct over Jeremy's rambling.  
  
James' breath catches in his throat at the normalcy of it. At the word ‘usually’.  
  
"But this time you were right. You know? I’ve been in this place forever. You two are still here. You are always here." He falters a little in the middle of the longest speech he's given since his accident, but gathers himself and ploughs on determinedly. "And then I shout at you. When you are the most important people in the world. To me. It is..." He hesitates, needing a moment, fumbling for the word, but James and Jeremy are too stunned to interrupt him anyway. “Ungrateful”, he finally concludes, relieved at having found it. “It’s ungrateful. I need you both. And I want you here. And I’m sorry. Very sorry.”  
  
And that’s where Richard’s own voice catches and that, finally, does it.  
Jeremy moves, and James is right behind him.  
  
Jeremy grabs Richard’s hands, draws them tightly around his chest, clutching them in a death grip. He is breathing noisily, heavily through his nose, ragged, tortured sounds wrenched from deep within, but obviously not providing enough air. Nowhere near providing enough air.  
  
And in a split-second James gets it, in a flash of astounding clarity he gets it and as he moves, too, he reaches too, but not for Richard as he’d originally intended.  
  
He reaches for Jeremy, who is having a fucking anxiety attack.  
  
James is up on his knees now, pressing in close to Jeremy’s side, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, trying to snap him out of it, trying to make him breathe.  
  
“Jez. Jeremy, for fuck’s sake, don't fight it. Let it go, come on, let it go. For once in your life, don’t hold back. Richard can take it. Right, Rich?”  
  
Richard’s eyes are wide over Jeremy's shoulder, deer-in-the-headlights-wide, but he gets it, thank god he gets it, and he nods vigorously. "’Course, Jez, ‘course I can. It’s ok.”  
  
James pulls them in then, both of them at once, because they are more one person than two at this point.  
  
And it's a bit awkward, Jeremy’s head is pressed sideways into James’ chest, one of James' hands firmly in his hair, the other reaching around his back, grabbing at either Richard or Jeremy, he isn’t sure and it doesn't matter, and Richard is wrapped around Jeremy from behind, Jeremy himself somehow holding on to them both for dear life, and it’s chaos but it works, it works in a mad tangle of hands and arms and knees and _them_, but it works.  
  
“You’re always trying to protect us, Jez”, James says, whispers, rather. “I know you're afraid to lose us. But that’s bollocks. You won't. Stop it. Let us take care of you for a change. Take care of _yourself_ for once in your life. We're good, Jez, we're good, come on.”  
  
And it’s maybe his words, or maybe Richard’s shushing noises or maybe the close contact or maybe a combination of all three, because that is when all dams burst and the flood gates open.  
  
James and Richard both hold him through it.  
Through the painful, shuddering gasps.  
Through the floods of tears pent up for weeks, waiting to be released.  
Through the choking, heaving, wracking sobs.  
Through the world breaking apart and then reassembling itself.  
  
And it's worse, it’s so much worse than that night when Richard needed to have holes drilled into his head, worse than the night of THE TALK or any other day on this far too long journey, because Jeremy has very clearly been holding back even then and through all of it.  
  
Has been holding back all this time for James' sake.  
Because James knows, without a doubt he knows, that he could not have taken this. Any sooner and without Richard there with him, he could not have taken this.  
And Jeremy has known. Has been mindful all the time to only let go so much.  
Because this would have broken them. This would have broken James, would have stripped him of the illusion of the mostly-in-control Jeremy he’d needed to get through it all himself.  
Only now, and only with Richard by his side, can James fully acknowledge how fragile, how sensitive, how scared deep inside Jeremy really is.  
That he needs them at least as much as they need him.  
  
When the flood finally, finally abates and breathing seems to become easier, James dares to extract one hand from the tangle that is _them_, wipes it over his own decidedly damp eyes and then roots through his jeans for his not entirely clean handkerchief.  
  
He offers it up with a tentative gesture, still keeping Jeremy as close as possible.  
  
Jeremy takes it without even looking, without hesitation, wipes at his eyes and face and blows his nose and then screws it up tight in his fist, undecided.  
  
James takes it back.  
  
“That true, Jez?” Richard whispers from behind them, still pressed as close as he can go, and James reaches around blindly, squeezes his upper arm, his shoulder, his neck, trying to convey his pride, his gratefulness, his love.  
  
Jeremy lifts his hands, which are still entangled with Richard’s, and drops a kiss to Richard’s knuckles before hiding his face somewhere in all four of them.  
  
"Why would you keep me around if I'm not strong?" his voice is hoarse, cracking. He clears his throat and adds, slightly defensively, “I _do_ know it’s irrational” into the stunned silence.  
  
James swallows hard, trying to process this on the go, flying by the seat of his pants.  
  
“Fears usually are”, he says, after a beat. “You see, I’m afraid of heights. And Hammond here is afraid of tiny little bugs.”  
  
He considers that last statement and his next move for a second, then opts for a lighter tone.  
“Which _is_ bloody irrational, you see, because he’s a tiny little bug himself, obviously.”  
  
He reaches out to shove a playful hand through Richard’s hair, tugging a bit at the too long strands which Richard protests with a half-hearted “Oi, put your fingers in your own hair, May!”  
  
Jeremy startles himself into a laugh at the exchange and even though it’s more of a cough than anything resembling the real thing, it’s enough to make Richard giggle and nuzzle a surreptitious kiss into Jeremy’s hair. James catches it, though, and his heart all but explodes.  
  
“We love you, Jezza. You’re stuck with us for good. Fuck, my wife divorced me over you two, so…” Richard cuts himself abruptly short, tensing up at the realization of what he’d just let slip, and James thinks it is very well possible that this is the first time he even remembers about the circumstances.  
  
"It's alright", he soothes quickly, at the same time that Jeremy says: “We know all about that, Rich.”  
  
Jeremy still has his face buried in his and Richard’s joint hands and his voice is still wet and rather shaky, but he seems to be getting there.  
Maybe.  
  
“Uh?” Richard says. Asks. It’s unclear..  
  
“She hauled it all at me, together with most of my crockery. And I, ah well, I may have told James recently. Exceptional circumstances, you see. Sorry.”  
  
James grins a bit sheepishly and shrugs in agreement and it's meant to be reassuring.  
  
But Richard reels back, wrenching his hands free of Jeremy's and backpedalling almost to the other end of the bed.  
  
The sudden lack of contact throws Jeremy visibly off balance, he seems light-headed as he carefully places his hands on the mattress either side of himself and takes deep, even breaths.  
  
James lays a hand on his arm, as much to calm him down as to make sure that he doesn’t keel over and looks questioningly at Richard, who has flushed bright red and is floundering.  
  
He also seems to have suddenly lost most of his hard-regained ability to form coherent sentences. “I, Jez, I. Sorry, not… did... didn’t... didn't want to take... advantage... or... somethin’. Only…I”, he stutters to a stop, clearly at a loss for words.  
  
“What are you on about, Richard?” James asks slowly, evenly, very, very carefully, afraid to spook him even more.  
  
Richard takes a deep breath, then another, tries again, more slowly. “I didn’t even think about that. Honest. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. Don't even want!"  
  
“Hammond.” Jeremy’s voice is firm but he’s breathing hard again, eyes fixed on his knees. “Maybe you haven’t noticed but I’m having an honest-to-god emotional breakdown here and if you don’t come back and hold me for a bit longer, I swear to god you’re both going to witness me losing every last one of my remaining marbles.”  
  
Richard is still frozen in his corner, so James gets up off the bed, reaches over and tugs him forward and around by the elbow, depositing him on the edge of the bed next to Jeremy.  
He may be stronger than he looks, yes, but Richard is just so delicate and tiny…  
  
“Will you come over here and hug some sense into him, you muppet?”  
  
Richard is too stunned to resist and as soon as he puts his arms around Jeremy again, the man turns into him and latches on as if he’s about to drown.  
  
James sits down on Jeremy's other side, a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, rubbing gentle circles and watching them.  
  
The situation is such a mess and he’s honestly not sure if it’s getting any better.  
  
“You’re shaking”, Richard declares after a moment.  
  
Jeremy laughs wetly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”  
  
“Was that a panic attack?” Richard is sounding genuinely concerned now.  
  
Jeremy barks a laugh. “Probably.”  
  
Richard pulls back slightly so he can press their foreheads together, then moves a hand up to Jeremy’s neck and tries to coach him into breathing regularly.  
Similar to what he did with James earlier, but more open about his intentions this time.  
  
It is ridiculous how adorable the two of them are and James shouldn’t have these thoughts.  
  
It is marvellous to see Richard taking charge, and that is a thought he wants to have over and over and over again.  
  
“What brought this on again, mate?” Richard asks softly, when Jeremy has calmed down some.  
  
Jeremy shrugs and buries his head back into Richard’s shoulder. “It’s so easy to lose either of you”, he says after a beat. “All it takes is an accident like this, or even just for me to say the wrong thing…”  
  
“I’m alive”, Richard soothes in that slightly sluggish way James is fast growing to love. “We’re all here. And there is nothing you could say…”  
  
“I only just said I know why you are divorced and you were all but gone!” Jeremy bursts out, pulling back.  
  
“He’s got a point there, mate”, James interjects mildly.  
  
Richard’s eyes are huge. “I didn’t want… I just wanted to give you space!”  
  
"Do I look like I _want_ space?" Jeremy exclaims and James adds “Bad timing, mate", but he's smiling.  
  
“I _know_!” Richard snaps, more frustrated than angry. “Sorry. I know _now_.”  
  
He gathers Jeremy back in and the bigger man goes willingly. “That was dumb. I was just…. thrown. I will not leave over something like that. Over anything. You idiot. Christ.”  
  
Jeremy nods into Richard’s neck and if he sniffles a bit or if there’s another tear or two escaping, well, no one could be sure enough to claim so.  
  
James clears his throat. “So, can we get this back on track, please? We have ‘irrational fear of getting left’.” He even air-quotes. “Is it also possible that you usually hurt people and try to drive them away _before_ they get a chance to hurt or leave _you_?”  
  
Jeremy’s “Maybe” is muffled by Richard’s shoulder and barely audible.  
  
“And Richard and I, we just wouldn’t budge. Although, if I remember correctly, you tried pretty hard there, for a while. Which was not very funny.”  
  
A wet-sounding snort, an affirmative nod.  
  
“And so, even if that should have been proof enough that we’ll stick around but apparently wasn’t, is it that for all this time, since your plan backfired, you’ve been living in constant fear of us leaving you?”  
  
“Maybe.” Just a whisper.  
  
“Jeremy, you utter, utter pillock.” James sighs. “I love you. May I kiss you?"  
  
“What??” It comes out in a high-pitched squeak but it finally makes Jeremy lift his head from Richard’s shoulder, shocked confusion plain on his tear-blotched, puffy face.  
  
Richard, too, looks at James with a considerable amount of surprise.  
  
“Well, in the course of this whole mess, it’s more or less the only thing we haven’t done yet!"  
James listens to the echo of his own voice and finds he sounds far too exasperated. He consciously softens his tone. "And, well, I’d really like to. Because in the course of this whole mess I seem to have fallen in love with you a little bit. A little bit of a lot, in fact."  
  
Richard grins, a big happy one, the sun coming up over Leeds several hours too early.  
He moves quietly away, disentangling himself from Jeremy and scooting back until he’s leaning against the headboard, watching.  
  
Jeremy stares at James with huge, incredulous eyes.  
  
"May I?" James asks again, bringing one hand up to gently cup Jeremy's cheek, index and middle finger of the other following suit, caressing, skirting lightly over chin, cheek-bone, temple and back down again, coming to rest on the pulse point just below Jeremy’s ear.  
  
It’s almost overwhelming, this feeling of _RIGHT_.  
  
He can feel Jeremy's heart beat furiously, more senses than sees Richard waiting with bated breath.  
  
Jeremy's lips move but no sound comes out.  
  
He clears his throat, tries again.  
  
"Yes, May" he, rasps, finally, or maybe it's 'Yes you may', but either way, it doesn't matter.  
  
James closes the distance.  
  
_And comes home.  
  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s done.  
I can't quite believe it, but it's done. 
> 
> 10 years it lived in my head and for about 8 of these I was convinced it would never see the light. 
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who has been along for the ride, here and on DW's chmslash community. _Especially_ to the wonderful people on the chmslash comm, because you had to deal with kind of an early draft of this, which really wasn't very good in places. But it was you being so encouraging that made me sit down and finish.  
And then sit down again and edit. 
> 
> But the biggest, fattest **Thank You** of them all belongs once more to the wonderful and infinitely patient [Delighted.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted)  
You’ve given me more emotional and educational support than you’ll probably ever be aware of. I love talking to you, I love picking things apart with you, I love sharing with you, I am so grateful to have met you. ❤


End file.
